


Hopeless Haze - Volume III: Day & Age

by thesunisgone



Series: Hopeless Haze [3]
Category: The Killers (Band)
Genre: (only in sections of Chapters 3; 4; & 5), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Complete, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18349652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunisgone/pseuds/thesunisgone
Summary: Ronnie was freaked out too but Brandon would probably be an absolute mess. Four years of healing down the drain.Originally posted on Wattpad under the username thesunisgone.





	Hopeless Haze - Volume III: Day & Age

**Chapter I: _A Glorious Existence_**

 

“It makes perfect sense!” Brandon exclaimed from his spot on Dave’s couch. “Are we human or are we dancer!” 

“It’s nonsense!” Ronnie retaliated. “I was with you when everything was plural. Looking for answers, are we human or are we dancers. No book needed-”

“Read the book!” Brandon screeched. “Read the book!” Dave, who was sitting next to the younger man, winced at the high-pitched sound of his voice. A metaphorical line had been drawn down the center of the room; Dave and Brandon on one side and Mark and Ronnie on the other. 

“I read the book!” Brandon continued. “Dave read the book!” He quickly motioned towards the guitarist who reflexively stopped Brandon’s hand mid-flight.

“Dave did  _ not  _ read the book,” Dave stressed. “He listened to Brandon ramble about it for thirty minutes and decided to just go with it.” 

Brandon crossed his arms and turned his attention to the quiet bassist in the corner. “I thought you would understand, Mark. You like reading—unlike  _ some people. _ ”

Mark simply shrugged and opted to stay silent. This was more Brandon and Ronnie’s problem, anyway. 

“Just give me this,  _ please. _ ” Brandon was begging at this point. “I let you have so much.  _ So much _ .” The inflection in Brandon’s voice made Dave shudder. 

“But, grammatically-” Ronnie tried to defend himself but was cut short by his boyfriend again.

“Does it look like I give a shit about grammar?” While the lover’s spat might be seen as malicious but anyone who knew the pair could tell it wasn't. At the end of the day Brandon would still curl up next to Ronnie in bed. It meant nothing. That didn't stop Brandon from getting heated, though.

“What will you do for me?” Ronnie asked. “And Mark! You have to win him over too!” 

Mark sighed, “I don't really care anymore.” Brandon shot Ronnie a devilish grin. 

“What do you  _ want  _ me to do?” Brandon raised his right eyebrow. 

Dave put his head in his hands, “oh, Jesus Christ.”

Ronnie, despite what it might have seemed, didn't absolutely hate the song. He liked it better the way it was before but he  _ knew  _ Brandon wasn't going to change that. But he knew Brandon would do anything to get his way. Anything.

“You’ve gotta start giving Nikita baths,” Ronnie said after a moment of contemplation. “I’m done.” Dave snorted at the simplicity of the request but it couldn't be heard over the sound of Brandon’s loud whining. 

“No!” Brandon threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, “she’ll hate me forever!” 

“Brandon,” Dave put a hand on the upset singer’s shoulder. “Wash the damn dog.” 

Brandon made a long monotonous sound for about five whole seconds. “Fine.” He finally said. 

“Starting today,” Ronnie added. The singer groaned again. 

“Can we get back to work now? Please?” Dave asked. The rest of the band stayed quiet so he decided to continue. “So Human is ready to be recorded—I assume. We still need to do the backing for This is Your Life and Losing Touch. Brandon, how is Run for Cover going?”

The singer repositioned himself on the couch. “It’s not,” the man sounded annoyed. “I can't do anything else with it. I wanna scrap it.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. “Okay, then,” Dave said as he scribbled the name out on the notepad he held. “What about Emerald City?” 

“That too.” 

“Everything I Know?” 

Brandon let a nervous giggle escape his lips. “Yeah, no.” Dave made a frustrated noise as he continued to mark names off of the list. “I’ll get you something soon. Promise.” Brandon gave the guitarist an awkward smile.

“Well,” Dave crossed his arms. “If Brandon has nothing then I guess we’re dismissed!”

Brandon stood from his spot at the couch and made his way to where Ronnie was sat in a recliner. The singer sighed and flopped down onto Ronnie’s lap. “I’m starving!” He said. “How does Waffle House sound?”

“Brandon, we ate there for breakfast five hours ago.” Ronnie shifted in his seat in an attempt to find a comfortable position. Brandon now had his legs hanging off the side of the chair and with the entire weight of his ass balancing on Ronnie’s thigh. 

“Five hours too many in my opinion.” 

Ronnie ignored his boyfriend and lazily watched Dave and Mark as they put away what little equipment they had gotten out. “What about _ iHop _ or something? You can still get breakfast and I can have a lunch that’s actually good.”

Brandon’s eyes (which had been shut) shot open before the singer glared at his partner. “What did you just say?” 

Ronnie sighed, “Brandon-”

“In this house, we don't go to _ IHOP _ .” Brandon interrupted. “And how dare you say that about Waffle House’s lunch menu. It tastes amazing.” 

“This is Dave’s house.” Ronnie pointed out. Brandon wasn't listening. 

“So what if they don't have the best steak? It’s the integrity that matters! I’ve been going there since I was a boy! A child!”

“They didn't build one here until 2000.” 

Brandon grinned, “does that mean you’ll take me?”

Ronnie threw the hand that wasn't trapped under Brandon in the air. “What part of what I just said made you think I would?” Brandon stared at Ronnie, his eerie grin still plastered on his face. “If I don't you’ll just go anyway, won't you?” The singer nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Fine. Might as well.” Brandon squealed and leaned towards Ronnie in an attempt to kiss him. This wasn't pleasant for the drummer, though, because Brandon’s body dug deeper into his thigh.

At this point, Dave had returned to his living room and watched in silent horror as Brandon attempted to kiss his boyfriend. Ronnie’s eyes were screwed shut—the man was obviously in pain. Dave shook his head and exited the room. 

* * *

“So what’s up with you and all these songs?” Ronnie asked with a mouth full of eggs. They had finally made it to Brandon’s beloved restaurant.

Brandon shrugged and continued to bury his waffles in syrup. “I dunno. I’m just having a little trouble, that’s all.” 

Ronnie furrowed his brow in confusion. “What happened though? You were so excited about the ones you scrapped. Especially Run For Cover.”  

“I dunno,” the singer repeated. He then chuckled lightly, “maybe I’m too happy.”

“Don't say that.” Ronnie started, shaking his head. “Don't say that.” 

“Well, it’s true!” Brandon started cutting into his waffles. “My life is so drama-free I’ve got nothing to sing about.” The singer seemed to find his situation mildly humorous. 

“You’ve gotta stop thinking like that, B,” Ronnie said. "It’s not healthy.”

Brandon grimaced, “I know, I know… you're right. Maybe it’s just writers' block.” The singer took a bite of his waffles and began smiling again.

“I’m sure that’s it.” The drummer confirmed. He was proud of Brandon’s new self. His boyfriend had quit drinking and smoking and though Brandon might not have wanted to admit it, the change was obvious. His skin had a healthy glow and his overall mood was lightened (of course Ronnie wasn't going to tell Brandon that he was now easier to be around but it honestly was. Ronnie loved Brandon from day one—alcoholism or not—but it was great to see the real him for once.). Brandon would have his days every now and then where he’d probably kill to have anything of the sort but he was strong. Ronnie knew he was. 

“Maybe we’ll put them on another album but they’re not good for this one.” Brandon brought Ronnie back to reality when he spoke. “I don't think it fits anyway. We need a more relaxed song to go on the album.”

“I guess that’s true,” the drummer agreed. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Don't be afraid to ask for help, though, ‘kay?”

Brandon giggled into his glass of water, “yeah, okay.” 

“So what do you want to do for the rest of the day?” Ronnie asked, switching subjects. Brandon shrugged and stuffed his mouth once again.

“I just wanna spend it with you.” 

* * *

Brandon stood in the bedroom doorway wearing a plain grey shirt and jeans, rolled up at the bottom and cuffed. He sighed loudly to get his boyfriend’s attention.

Ronnie, who had been on the bed reading a magazine about drums, looked up and scanned the other man before letting out a curt laugh. Brandon looked annoyed. “You look like a farmer,” Ronnie stated, smiling.

“I don't want to get the ends of my pants wet,” the singer explained.

“Wear shorts, then,” Ronnie suggested. “You know, if you had let me have my way you wouldn't be wearing  _ anything  _ right now and we could actually enjoy this fine Wednesday evening.” Brandon tried to find the proper words to respond with but just ended up looking like a fish out of water. 

“Help me,” he finally said. Ronnie rolled his eyes and put the magazine on his nightstand before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

“I’ll instruct you briefly-” Brandon pouted at this, “-but this is a problem you have to solve.” Ronnie made his way to the door and peeked into the living room. There Nikita was, sleeping peacefully on the couch. 

Brandon followed his boyfriend’s line of sight and whined quietly so that he wouldn't wake the animal. “This is unfair,” he whispered to Ronnie’s ear, standing on his toes. “She’s clean—this is unnecessary, Ron.”

“She was rolling around in the dirt yesterday.”

“That’s just how she is-” at this moment Nikita opened her eyes and looked at the couple. “Shit. Do you think she knows?” Nikita sat up and stared at Brandon intently.

Ronnie crossed his arms, “yeah, she knows. You’ve gotta call her over and get her in the shower.”

Brandon looked confused, “I thought I was giving her a bath.”

“If you think that dog is getting in the tub for a spa treatment you're wrong.”

Brandon cleared his throat and began to call the dog. “Hey, baby! Whatcha doin’?” The dog jumped off the couch and began to retreat deeper into the house. “Oh, please don’t go.” Brandon trotted off in her direction, the sight making Ronnie chuckle. 

After a couple of moments of chaos, the drummer heard Brandon repeating a mantra of “I’m sorry”, his voice growing louder as he got closer. 

Even though they had only gotten Nikita a little over a year earlier, dogs got big fast and Nikita was about halfway fully grown. This meant that Brandon could still hold her—it was just very awkward and neither of them liked it. 

So saying that Ronnie was treated with a cute sight was the understatement of the century when Brandon turned the corner, half-cradling his dog in his arms. 

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Brandon said once he was closer to Ronnie. He rushed past his boyfriend and made his way into the master bathroom. The drummer followed suit and shut the door behind him so that Brandon could let go of Nikita without the fear of her running away. 

“C’mon, baby.” Brandon nudged Nikita into the absurdly large shower, apologizing under his breath as he did. Once the dog was inside, Brandon swiftly hopped in and shut the glass door behind him. 

“This thing is bigger than my apartment’s bedroom.” The singer’s voice echoed slightly from inside the shower. 

“I don't think that’s right.” Ronnie retrieved the dog shampoo and cracked open the glass door to hand it to Brandon. “Maybe as big as the old bathroom.” 

“Bigger than that,” his boyfriend replied. Brandon squatted down in front of Nikita and pet her head gently, “you know I love you, right? I love you more than anything else. I love you with my whole heart.”

“God, I wish you talked to me like that.” Ronnie joked. 

Brandon snorted, “I would if you didn't make me do things like this.”

“You two both look so miserable—I actually feel a little bit bad.” Brandon flipped Ronnie off from inside the shower. “Wait—let me go get my camera.” Ronnie rushed off to the bedroom, leaving Brandon alone momentarily. 

“Stop it with all the pictures,” Brandon laughed. “What if someone finds them one day?”

“They won’t,” Ronnie assured, looking at Brandon through the viewfinder of the camera. “I keep them hidden deep in my laptop’s ‘C’ drive.”

“Know, I don't know a lot about technology but isn't that the default one?” Ronnie chuckled at Brandon’s comment. 

“Don’t worry about it,” the drummer said. “You have work to do. I'm gonna get back to my reading, now. Good luck!” With that Ronnie left his boyfriend alone in the bathroom and returned to their bedroom to finish his magazine. After a couple minutes of reading, though, he moved to the living room, distracted by Brandon’s constant yelling. 

Lounging on the couch and smiling softly, Ronnie didn't think his life could get any better. He was content. 

At that moment he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Without a thought Ronnie discarded his magazine and retrieved his cell phone—what he saw made him freeze. 

Jeremy Bates [11:04 P.M.]: Check your email. This is important.

The drummer’s mind immediately found the worst-case scenario. Why was the band’s tour manager telling him this? Was someone dead? Were they being sued? Again? 

Ronnie worked up the courage to open his email and what he saw chilled him to his core.

* * *

**Chapter II: _I'll Never Let Them Get You_**

 

This was not good. This was very bad.

They were in deep now. 

In the cursed email that Ronnie had received was a single link that led to an article on the Los Angeles Star’s (a tabloid magazine based out of the Californian city that also did its dirty work in the surrounding cities) website that ruined everything he and Brandon had been working towards. Years of secrets were being scrutinized under the public eye. 

In this article there was a picture dated December 19th, 2005. One week prior to Christmas. A picture of the Las Vegas mall with two occupants in the center holding hands. 

At first, Ronnie thought he was dreaming. He had to be. That was the only explanation. But as he read the actual article his delusion came crashing down. Here they had sourced all the times he and Brandon had been “buddy-buddy” in interviews and even during live performances. Brandon took the worst hits, though. He had already been harassed by media outlets before about his sexuality and he had stressed to Ronnie how uncomfortable it made him feel in the past. It made sense why this was happening to him—he  _ was  _ the lead singer, after all. Ronnie wished that this wasn't the case, though. He wished that it was his name plastered all over the article and not Brandon’s.

Ronnie quickly sent a reply to Jeremy telling him that he would handle the situation before briefly contemplating keeping his boyfriend in the dark. This was obviously not the answer. Ronnie cursed himself for even entertaining the idea of not letting Brandon know. 

Brandon was going to take it bad though. Ronnie was freaked out too but Brandon would probably be an absolute mess. Four years of healing down the drain. 

At that moment Ronnie heard Brandon talking to Nikita again. Bathtime was over. 

“Brandon?” He called. “Can you come here for a minute?” 

“One second!” Was the reply. Ronnie went over what he was going to say for the longest time until Brandon finally showed up; shirt wet, a stupid grin on his face, and a damp dog at his feet.

“What’s up?” He asked. There was an air of confusion in the room that emanated from the younger man. 

“I need you to take a deep breath-”

Brandon interrupted his boyfriend, “you can't say things like that and expect me to not freak out immediately.”

“Just…” Ronnie decided that whatever speech he had planned wouldn't be as good as just showing Brandon the article in question. The thing was that he  _ really  _ didn't want to show his boyfriend the article.

Brandon noticed Ronnie’s eyes flickering between the floor and his laptop’s screen and decided to deal with the situation at hand himself. The singer bent down and jerked the laptop in his direction, his eyes immediately going wide when he saw what was displayed on it. He shot back and put his head in his hands as if he was trying to hide from the article. Ronnie had expected an outburst from him but found none—he would have rather had that than Brandon’s deathly silence.

“Brandon, please-” Ronnie stopped himself when he noticed a slight shake in his boyfriend’s shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s okay-”

“It’s not okay!” Brandon snapped. “I knew this would happen! I knew we couldn't just be left alone!” Frustrated tears fought to streak down his face, but Brandon held them back. “Why can't we just be  _ happy _ ?” 

“We are, baby, we are!” Ronnie stood from his spot on the couch and tried to embrace his boyfriend but Brandon shied away. “Please just read it.”

“I can't,” Brandon wrapped his arms around his shaking frame. “I can't- you know I can't.” 

“Baby, please,” Ronnie’s words came out in a whisper. “We can deny it. We don't have to tell them anything. But please, you need to read it so we can move forward.”

Brandon stayed quiet for a moment before speaking. “How bad is it?” 

Ronnie obviously wanted to ignore the question. “I’ll just...” Ronnie turned back to his laptop and scanned the page. “It’s titled  _ ‘Brandon Flowers of Mr. Brightside fame caught galavanting with band’s drummer.’ _ ” Brandon heaved out his first sob. 

“How about I read it to you? Would that make it better?” The singer hesitantly nodded before falling back on the couch, a still damp Nikita jumping up to lay next to him.

Ronnie took a deep breath and started. “ _ Submitted by an anonymous source, the above photo of Las Vegas rock stars Brandon Flowers and Ronnie Vannucci Jr. was presumably taken in a local mall in the weeks leading up to Christmas in 2005. _

“ _ The photograph is completely unassuming until the viewer notices the two men’s intertwined hands. While seeing this was quite surprising to the lucky editor who received the photo, we’ve been anticipating a move like this for years. _ ” Ronnie stopped, struggling to read the next part. “ _ It’s no shock that Flowers, The Killers’ own flamboyant frontman, turned out to be on the sequined end of the sexuality spectrum _ -”

“This is a fucking joke,” Brandon growled. “They cannot be serious.” The singer leaned forward and put his head in his hands, sighing deeply.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Ronnie asked, unsure of what to do. Brandon waved his hand, not answering. 

Ronnie inhaled deeply and continued. “ _ After looking into the two bandmates’ past, the editors here at LAS facepalmed—this has been right in front of us for years. Both Flowers and Vannucci (the band’s drummer) have had their fair share of intimate moments both on and off stage over the years. What was seen as gestures of closeness between friends turns into something far more promiscuous once you see the full picture. From cheek kissing in interviews to Flowers outright telling a crowd about Vannucci’s ‘pretty face’, it’s obvious that these young men have the hots for each other. _ ”

“This is bullshit!” Brandon shot up and slapped the leather couch cushion he sat on. 

“I know, I know,” Ronnie went to touch the singer but Brandon crossed arms, preventing the drummer from comforting the man. “It only gets worse.”

“I don't see how,” Brandon spoke harshly. “This is absolutely the worst thing that has ever happened to me, how could it get worse?” 

Ronnie skimmed ahead in the article, “they… bring up how defensive you are about your sexuality in the next paragraph and chalk it up to you being in denial about it.” Brandon cast Ronnie a deadly glare. “I’m sorry, their words, not mine.”

“That doesn't even make any fucking sense—it’s stupid,” Nikita whined softly at Brandon’s outburst but the man ignored her.

Ronnie winced, “they blame it on your  _ ‘internalized homophobia due to being brought up in the Mormon church’ _ .” 

Brandon, outraged and in shock, stood and began to retreat to the bedroom. “I’m going to bed.” 

Ronnie let Brandon go without another word, deciding to let the man have a moment to himself before he joined him. The drummer hated what he had just done. Every time he saw his boyfriend flinch at his words he felt as if he were personally responsible for his pain. He hated how cruel and dehumanizing the tabloids could be. It was unfair. It was always like that with them: two steps forward, three steps back.

After ten minutes of quiet contemplation, Ronnie shut off his laptop and turned out the lights before making his way back to the bedroom, Nikita in tow. When he entered the dark room he found Brandon laying in bed, back facing the door. 

Wordlessly, Ronnie changed and crawled in bed next to him, laying on his side to face Brandon. His boyfriend’s eyes were shut but that didn't stop Ronnie from speaking. “I’m sorry,” he put simply.

Brandon’s eyes were still shut. “I know,” his voice was raw and Ronnie knew that if the light was on he would see stains of red on his face. “Not your fault.”

“It’ll be alright,” Ronnie said for what must have been the thousandth time in his lifetime. He heard Brandon sigh, exhaling through his nose in an almost disappointed manner. “Hard to believe, I know, but it’s always true.”

“There must be a margin of error there.” Brandon finally said. It was at this point the jingling of Nikita’s collar was heard as she jumped onto the bed and plopped down between the two men. 

“From past experience, I don't think so.” The drummer replied. There was a thick silence before Brandon said anything.

“What are we gonna do?” He asked. The singer finally opened his eyes and what little light was in the room sparkled in them. Ronnie felt like he was dreaming.

“We can tell the truth,” He started. “Or we can lie—avoid it. Your choice.”

“Don't put this all on me, Ronnie,  _ please _ .” Brandon pleaded. 

Ronnie slid a hand up to Brandon’s face and caressed his cheek reassuringly. “It’s okay if you aren't ready. It’s completely fine if you want to keep this between us. But, if you don't, that’s fine too. I don't care if every man, woman, and child on Earth know if I love you. Do you know why?” 

Brandon sniffled, “because it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks?”

Ronnie smiled, “finally, you're starting to learn something.” Ronnie leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Brandon’s lips. “Just think about it. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Goodnight.”

It was silent again until Brandon spoke.

“I do love you with my whole heart, you know.”

Ronnie chuckled, “yeah, I know. I love you too.”

* * *

Brandon woke up tired—that much was obvious. That morning he navigated the house in an almost dead state, not speaking to either boyfriend or dog, going about his life in a depression. Ronnie didn't comment on this, though, in his mind, Brandon had reason to be upset.

Still, that didn't stop the drummer from worrying about his significant other. After all, Ronnie had woken up alone and he knew that Brandon had the tendency to abstain from much needed rest when the boy had a lot on his mind. That’s what smoking at three in the morning was for—a contemplation period for Brandon and a wake up call for Ronnie, who had woken up in a panic on numerous occasions because he had thought that the apartment was on fire.

But Brandon didn't smoke anymore so all he could do was stare at the ceiling for hours without end; stiff and with his mind running at a thousand miles per hour.

So there Brandon was—at the kitchen’s island, hunched over his plate of eggs and not really bothering to eat them. The air was thick and painfully awkward. Ronnie had tasked himself with emptying Nikita’s water dish and refilling it for no reason other than that he didn't know what to do with himself at that moment. They couldn't avoid the proverbial elephant in the room forever but the drummer could certainly push a houseplant in front of it—out of sight, out of mind. You can't really avoid said elephant when it just happens to be your boyfriend whom you live and work with, though. 

Ronnie finally built up the courage to say something, however. “Are we still going to the studio today?” He asked. 

Brandon didn't look up from where he was playing with his now cold breakfast but became visibly confused. “What are you- oh,” he cut himself off, realizing what Ronnie was talking about. Today was the day that they had marked on the calendars for what seemed like years, sadly overshadowed by a disaster of a situation. 

“I don't see why not...” Brandon stated softly, still taking his scrambled eggs on an adventure of his plate. “No reason not to.” 

“But we don't  _ have  _ to if you aren't up to it,” Ronnie said. Brandon frowned again.

“Everything is fine,” the singer lied. “We can get mimosas on the way.” 

Ronnie snorted at the mentioning of mimosas in casual conversation, “since when was that a thing we did?” 

“Since when I decided to get my shit together and it was followed by everything thing else going to Hell,” there was amusement in Brandon’s voice, which made Ronnie smile. “Please, Ron, let's get mimosas. I’ve been thinking about this all night.” 

“I knew you were awake,” Ronnie spoke mostly to himself but Brandon darkened when he heard the drummer’s comment. 

He held his head in his hands, arms propped up on the island’s counter. “How can you expect me to sleep at a time like this?” Ronnie should have kept his mouth shut, he realized. They were finally having a normal conversation but then he just  _ had  _ to bring up the topic of Brandon’s insomnia. 

“Did you at least… think on it?” Ronnie treaded the waters he was swimming in lightly. “While you were awake?”

Deep in thought, Brandon rubbed his clean-shaven face—a nice change from his constant mustache stroking of the last two years. “I want to be brave. I  _ want  _ this to not be a problem anymore, but…” he trailed off. Ronnie found that his heart began to speed up in anticipation. “After all I’ve been through— _ we’ve _ been through, I don't know if I can.”

“That’s okay,” Ronnie said, only a little bit disappointed. He didn't really expect Brandon to agree to come clean, anyway. “You should be able to do this on your own time and not be forced into it by a magazine that no one’s ever heard of.” 

Brandon smiled a little but he didn't seem entirely convinced. Ronnie continued, “like I said, I don't care what happens as long as we do it together. I’m scared too, Brandon—believe me, I am. I’m terrified.”

“You don't always seem it…” Brandon said, voice soft and not all there.

“I am, though,” Ronnie made his way around the island to sit next to his boyfriend. “I have been since the beginning. I was scared the night I fell in love with you, when we first shared your bed, the first time we kissed. I was scared for you and the path you were going down but I knew I had to walk it with you until the end. Do you know why?”

Brandon stayed silent, but finally looked to the older man. 

“Because if I had stayed back, petrified, you would have been alone. Neither of us would have gotten anywhere and I  _ knew  _ you were scared, too.” Ronnie sighed, tired. “You  _ are  _ brave, Brandon—this doesn't change that. It’s okay to be scared sometimes.”

Brandon nodded thoughtfully and it seemed like he was going to say something but he stopped himself before he could. Eventually he pushed his plate away and exhaled curtly through his nose. “We should get going,” he said. “If we’re getting mimosas we need to leave now so we’re not late. Dave would be pissed at us.”

Ronnie chuckled at the mention of both the other man  _ and  _ the mimosas. He was about to stand to leave before he stopped himself, noticing Brandon’s attire. “You haven't changed since last night.”

Brandon looked down at himself, examining the T-shirt and jeans he had washed Nikita in. “I don't think I really care today, Ron.”

The drummer bit his lip but nodded anyway before continuing to retrieve the keys to his truck, “let’s go, then.” 

* * *

Ever since they started the band there was always one goal that they never thought they’d get to. Brandon remembered tipsy nights rambling about how  _ amazing  _ it would be if it ever happened and now here he was—owner of a recording studio. In homage to the state he adored so much they called it Battle Born Studios. After months of planning and set up, their little studio—tucked safely in a notoriously hard to find alley—was finished.

Brandon tried to forget about everything that had happened the past twenty-four hours and relished in his excitement for just one moment. As they drove to the studio Brandon shut his eyes and concentrated on the wind that hit his face—everything had gone so right. 

The wind stopped and Brandon scowled, opening his eyes to find that they had stopped at a stoplight. He was suddenly reminded of everything else that had gone so wrong. They were going to have to talk about that with Mark and Dave, he realized. He lazily turned to look at his boyfriend who had one arm draped over the truck’s steering wheel.  _ Maybe not  _ everything  _ had gone wrong.  _

Ronnie caught Brandon’s staring and smiled back at him timidly. The singer simultaneously felt a warmness tinge his cheeks and noticed his heart sinking. Ronnie was ready to let the world in on their secret—he had already made that clear. Turning back to the window to avoid the other’s gaze, Brandon thought on the probability that he might just not be enough for the drummer. The odds of that were small, sure, but the anxious creature in his mind said otherwise. 

It was like when people told him that, according to statistics, he was more likely to die in a fiery car accident than in a plane crash. That didn't ever make him feel better though—it just reminded him off all the flowers and crosses he’d seen littered along American highways when he was touring. It reminded him of a terrible sinking feeling he’d experience whenever the placement of these memorials was particularly horrifying. 

Brandon kind of felt that way now.

It was foolish—he knew that. Ronnie had told him that it was okay if they kept it a secret and Brandon  _ knew  _ that Ronnie wouldn't lie to him about something like that—Hell, he wasn't suspecting him of anything like that. In an attempt to reassure himself of it, Brandon thought of all the times his boyfriend had told him the truth in contrast to the insignificant white lies that he himself was afraid to admit. This only made him feel worse. Ronnie deserved better, he thought.

Someone who wasn't afraid to be seen with him under the rose-tinted light called  _ love.  _

Brandon shook himself—he was getting carried away. He wasn't afraid to be seen with Ronnie, he was afraid of the backlash that might ensue. But Ronnie had said to push through it. Be brave. He suddenly felt very impulsive which he knew was a bad thing under most circumstances. So what if the world knew? Brandon didn't care if-

“Brandon, we’re here.”  _ Oh, right.  _ Brandon put on his pleased face and smiled at Ronnie.

“No time to waste, then!” He exclaimed, opening the car door. “Dave’s already here!” He promptly hopped out of the truck and made his way to the steps that lead up to the front door. Ronnie chuckled and followed suit. Dave was waiting at the door with Brandon when he got there, chatting about something mundane like the weather. Upon seeing the other man, the guitarist perked up. 

“I love the smell of  _ BBS  _ in the morning,” Dave said as he held the door for the two men, closing it once they were inside. 

Brandon’s nose wrinkled in disgust, “don't call it that.” Dave gave a curt laugh.

“Brandon’s bullshit,” he replied. It was obvious he had been sitting on that joke all morning. 

“Bullshit is one word, though,” Ronnie pointed out. “Brandon’s bullshit  _ store _ .” Dave wholeheartedly lost his mind. Ronnie’s heart warmed at the guitarist’s light mood.

“Where else would we buy it if not from Brandon?” Dave said in between giggles. “Bullshit seller, I have a rewards card.” 

“Me too!” Ronnie joked as they walked to the studio’s main sitting room. He quickly checked to make sure Brandon wasn't hurt by the insults but was surprised when he found the man softly smiling. “How many points do you have?”

“More than you, for sure,” Dave said. “I’ve known him longer.” 

“Yeah, Dave, but I live with him.”

Dave snorted, “true, you’ve got me there.” The hallway they were navigating through opened up to a larger room at that moment—one with couches and a ping-pong table. That was Brandon’s touch. 

Brandon and Ronnie fell back on one of the couches while Dave plopped down on the one across from them before saying, “Mark should be here soon—he’s running a little late. In the meantime, though, I have a question about Losing Touch _.  _ Is it ‘Roman vagabond’ or ‘roaming vagabond’?”

“Actually…” Ronnie spoke before Brandon got the chance to answer Dave’s question. “We need to talk about something. Did you get an email or text for Jeremy last night?”

Dave furrowed his brows, “no, why?” An uncomfortable silence made its way into the room.

“I didn't get one, either,” Brandon suddenly pointed out. “He probably didn't want me to fall over and die, though.” Ronnie nodded—Brandon’s explanation made sense. The younger man probably would have thrown his phone into their swimming pool before running to hide in Mexico if their tour manager had contacted him and not Ronnie. 

“There was an… incident.” Ronnie had trouble finding the right words to describe the situation he and Brandon were currently in. “Maybe we should wait until Mark gets here.”

Dave rolled his eyes in annoyance, not wanting to be kept from whatever was going on. “Are we being sued again?” He asked. “That bitch, Braden, ain’t getting us again.” Brandon groaned at the mentioning of their old manager with whom they went through a one-year lawsuit with, ending at last in February of that year. Part of him wished it was another lawsuit, though, after having a moment to think about it. 

“No,” Ronnie said with a sigh of relief. “We aren't being sued. It’s about a tabloid.” 

“Dammit,” Dave cursed. “Brandon, did you say something to Green Day again? I thought we were past that, now.” The singer suddenly felt guilty again but Ronnie quickly came to his aid. 

“No, no,” Ronnie repeated. “This is no one’s fault. Let’s just wait for Mark so we don’t have to explain it twice.” Dave sighed, shrugging.

The room fell into silence again until there were two loud, brief knocks at the front door down the hall. Brandon, wanting out of the situation he was currently in, swiftly stood and went to answer it. “Maybe that’s him now,” he mumbled quickly as he left the room. 

With Brandon gone, Dave decided to question Ronnie further. “Is this a relationship thing?” The guitarist spoke softly in the hopes that the man down the hall wouldn't hear him.

Ronnie hung his head in defeat. “Yeah,” was all he said. Dave sat further back on the couch and gave a tired groan.

“Are you okay?” Dave asked. “Is  _ he  _ okay?” 

“I’m keeping things together for the both of us,” Ronnie eventually said after thinking about it for a moment. “I don't think he’s taking it very well, though. They came after him, mostly.” Ronnie ran a hand through his hair, “he was quiet this morning-” 

“Reporter!” Brandon screeched, appearing in the room out of nowhere. His face was pale and deeply troubled.

“What?” Both Dave and Ronnie said, not quite understanding what the younger man was trying to say. 

Brandon stayed put in his spot standing at the entrance to the room and swallowed hard. “I opened the door and there was a reporter out there and he was asking all these questions and I didn't know what to do or say so I froze then shut the door in his face and then came back here.” Brandon’s fragmented sentence came out in one long breath. “How did he find this place? Hardly anyone knows we bought it!” His eyes widened suddenly, “we’re being followed.”

“Brandon, we’re not being followed. Have a seat,” Ronnie said to the frantic singer. “Just calm down-” 

“I can't fucking calm down!” Brandon yelled. “I can't be calm when there’s a fucking man at our door demanding to know which one of us tops!”

“Oh my God,” Ronnie said, standing. “Did he really ask you that?” 

Brandon took a deep breath in order to relax but it didn't seem to be working. “No, he didn't,” he said. “But he might as well have.” Ronnie stepped forward to wrap his arms around his partner but Brandon stayed stiff. 

“Is he still out there?” Dave stood from his seat. “I’m going to invert his dick-”

“Don't!” Brandon escaped from Ronnie’s grasp and held his arms out to Dave, blocking the man from the door. “We’ll just look more suspicious!” 

“Well  _ you  _ were the one to slam the door in his face,” Dave pointed out. Ronnie looked back at the guitarist and shook his head at him.

“Now isn't the time, Dave.” He said. “We should see if he’s still there, though. Warn Mark.”

“We can't leave,” Brandon took a step backward, closer to the hall, and crossed his arms. “Cause he won't. I know he won't. We can sleep here.” 

“Brandon, don't you think that’s a bit extreme?” Ronnie asked. 

Obviously very distraught, Brandon was close to breaking down. “I don't know. I’m fucking terrified.”

During the commotion, Mark had shown up. He appeared behind Brandon with a look of “ _ oh Hell, what have I just walked in on _ ” smeared on his face. He slid gracefully past Brandon and went to sit on the couch that was previously occupied by Dave. 

Brandon jumped at the other man’s sudden appearance and quickly began to question him. “Did you see a man outside? A little, disgusting man?” 

Mark raised a brow at the wording of Brandon’s inquiry but nodded at him nonetheless. “A man left when I arrived.”

Dave clapped abruptly, startling everyone in the room. “God, Mark, you probably scared him off,” he said. “Good thinking.” Mark shrugged, not really understanding what was going on but also seeming fine with it at the same time. 

“Now that Mark’s here we can at least explain it,” Ronnie said. He grabbed Brandon’s wrist and dragged him back to the couch, “c’mon. I’ll do all the talking.” Brandon nodded wordlessly and allowed himself to be pulled back onto the couch. Dave, still very annoyed with the situation with the reporter, shot the door an angry look before sitting down next to Mark. 

Ronnie composed his thoughts and took a moment to prepare himself for what he was about to say. He shot a worried glance at Brandon, who was sat nearly on top of him and staring at the floor dejectedly, before he started. “Last night Jeremy sent me an article from the Los Angeles Star about me and Brandon.”

“I’ve never heard of them before,” Dave quipped. Ronnie shook his head.

“Doesn't matter. They have a big local following in L.A. along with other, smaller offices in big west coast cities.” Ronnie explained. 

“That explains the rat, then.” Brandon’s voice was quiet despite them being so close to each other. The drummer nodded and put an arm around his boyfriend. 

“Yeah,” Ronnie continued. “Anyway, I guess a photo from ‘05 surfaced and they got hold of it. They posted the article a week ago but it’s gotten enough attention in that time that we finally got wind of it. It’s pretty bad,” Ronnie sighed. “A bunch of shit about how me and Brandon are allegedly in a secret relationship, which is true I guess, but they were still wrong. They said a bunch of stuff targeting the both of us but it was mostly about Brandon.” The drummer quietened. “He got the short end of the stick on this one.”

“Of course he did,” Dave said, waving his arm toward the couple. “He always will and it sucks because things shouldn't be like this and there's nothing we can do about it. Brandon deserves this treatment the least out of all of us—he’s been through too much.” Dave muttered the last part but he found Brandon staring at him after he said it. They made brief eye contact before Brandon looked away, clearly embarrassed by the situation. The singer stayed silent and went back to playing with the ring he wore on his left index finger. 

“What are we going to do?” Mark had stayed quiet during Ronnie’s explanation, thinking the problem out and trying to find a way to solve it. Ronnie and Dave’s attention was drawn back to Brandon, who timidly looked to Ronnie for the answer.

“I’m fine no matter what we do. Either way, it’ll be hard but I know if we choose to be public about it we’ll get through it.” Brandon flinched at Ronnie’s words and everyone seemed to pick up on it.

Brandon didn't have a lot of time to think on it anymore, he realized. He had to decide what they were going to do and they could no longer delay it any further. The young man wanted to disappear completely—to go to sleep and avoid all of his problems.

He couldn't do that, though. Everyone was waiting for him to finally weigh in on the subject. 

“I think…” he started, unsure what to say. “It’s the right thing to tell the truth but it’s not right for me. Not now. Not like this. But, if it would make you happy-”

“No,” Ronnie deadpanned. “It wouldn't if it meant you’d be uncomfortable every step of the way, regretting your decision.” He looked back to the guitarists in the room, “we’ll find excuses for any evidence thrown at us. We can write something up explaining everything and post it on Facebook or somewhere. I don't know.” 

“But-” Brandon was interrupted by Ronnie again. 

“It’s obvious that you don't want this, Brandon, and that’s fine! Don't worry about it. I couldn't live with myself if I knew that I forced you to do something you didn't want to do.” Brandon finally seemed to be subdued and simply nodded. Ronnie frowned at the man’s reaction but didn't push it any further. 

“You look tired, Brandon,” Dave said softly. “Maybe you two should go home and Mark and I can fix things up around here. We can think about what we want to say about everything and meet back up here tomorrow.”

“I don't want to come back here,” Brandon said. “The reporter might come back.”

Dave sighed at Brandon’s paranoia, “how about we come to your house then so we don't risk anything?” Brandon nodded, happy with the compromise. 

Seeing Dave being soft towards Brandon always gave Ronnie a warm feeling inside. It reminded him that there was a time before he stepped in when it was just the two of them in Dave’s apartment. Sometimes Ronnie wondered what those times were like and he always made a point to ask Brandon about it but he never really got around to doing it. Maybe he would tonight if he needed to distract Brandon from the situation at hand. 

Ronnie took Brandon’s hand and stood, “we’ll see you then, I guess. Come around noon and I’ll make lunch or something.” Dave chuckled and waved the men off.

Ronnie guided the singer down the hall but the other man tore himself away once they were close to the exit. Brandon headed for a window to his left and took a long look at the parking lot outside, holding the blinds open with two fingers.

Ronnie sighed. Two steps forward, three steps back.

* * *

 

**Chapter III: _The Story of Forbidden Love_**

 

**** “I’m worried about you,” Ronnie said to Brandon that night. The younger man who stood in front of their bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth, quirked his eyebrow up at the reflection of Ronnie, leaned up against the doorway. 

Brandon spat into the sink and wiped his mouth before responding, “You’re always worried about me for one reason or another.” There was a hint of mirth in the singer’s voice. 

“We haven't really talked about what happened,” Ronnie continued. Brandon gave him a weird look via the mirror again.

“We’ve literally been talking about it all day.” Brandon rinsed his toothbrush off and turned to look at the drummer, frowning. “I’m tired of talking about it.” 

“Brandon,” Ronnie stated evenly. “I’m only being so blunt about this because I  _ know  _ how you tend to bottle things up and that’s when shit gets bad. Agree?” Brandon rolled his eyes and hopped up on the vanity. Ronnie chuckled lightly, “are you trying to be taller than me?” 

Quiet as a mouse, Brandon responded. “Yes to both.” Ronnie nodded, happy with his answer. 

“How do you feel? Genuinely?” Ronnie moved towards the other man and leaned against the wall across from him. 

“I’m scared.”

“Why?” Brandon looked very annoyed suddenly.

He crossed his arms across his chest, “You know damn well why. Don't ask stupid questions.” 

“Yeah, but,” Ronnie stepped forward and looked up (but still not too far up—Brandon was still short) at the singer. “It’s nearly two in the morning and I’m tired because I stayed up with you ‘cause you took a nap at three and you weren’t tired when I wanted to sleep.” Ronnie’s words all ran together. “And two A.M. is honesty hour in this house and it’s your fuckin’ birthday, mister.” 

“My birthday was a month ago, Ron,” Brandon giggled. He reached forward and hooked his hands together behind the drummer’s neck, pulling Ronnie towards himself. “I’m scared for, like, a thousand different reasons.”

“Indulge me, please,” Ronnie murmured, suddenly feeling much more tired than he had been before. 

“I’m afraid of what will happen tomorrow and how I’m convinced this will all be over then even though I know it won’t be,” Brandon moved his hands to either side of the drummer’s face and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “I’m scared because I think this might happen again if we aren't more careful but I don't want to have to pretend that I’m not in love with you when I’m yelling at you at Whole Foods because you think peaches and nectarines are the same thing.” 

“They are though, baby doll.”

“Not now, Ron. Peaches are fuzzy and-” Brandon let his hands drop to Ronnie’s shoulders. “I’m not doing this tonight. I was full of an irrational fear earlier because I was worried that you were going to leave me for someone else because you love to show off your dumb boyfriend skills and you can't do that with me and I was absolutely terrified for the three minutes I thought about it.” 

Ronnie had been falling asleep on his feet but this revelation woke him somewhat. “What are you talking about?” Brandon snorted.

“It’s stupid, I know. I got over it quickly. I thought I’d mention it if we were going to have an intervention.” Brandon pressed a quick kiss to the drummer’s forehead, “Not a big deal anymore, really.” 

“It kinda is a big deal though because you  _ genuinely thought  _ that I was going to leave you?” Ronnie asked.

The drummer’s drowsiness was beginning to infect Brandon now, “Yeah, for like two seconds. I was thinkin’ all sorts of things. I was in a mood.” 

Somewhat concerned, Ronnie pushed this further. “What else were you thinking about?” 

Brandon thought for a moment, “about how you’re a good person because you’ve never lied to me as far as I know and I have. I’m scared because I lie and I lie because I’m scared but now that I think about it I haven't lied in a long time so I was just overreacting. We were at a red light—what else was I going to do? I was freaking out about probably seventy different things earlier.” 

Ronnie wondered how true Brandon’s statement was and briefly remembered the discarded pill bottle from their adventure in Georgia the year before. Brandon seemed to notice Ronnie’s sudden apprehension and quickly tried to redeem himself. 

“Don't worry, I don't lie to you constantly. Only little baby white ones. I must seem so terrible right now,” Brandon laughed, throwing his head back. If it weren't for how well Ronnie knew him, the drummer might have confused Brandon’s nervousness for glee. “God, I’m tired. I'm not a compulsive liar. I should have kept my mouth shut.” 

“I’m not really worried about that, Bran. I’m sure I’ve told you little lies too—everyone does. You should just drop that.” Brandon smiled and nodded. “You’re very open tonight. Anything else you wanna bring up?” 

Brandon responded almost immediately, “I only wanted mimosas this morning because they’re technically half champagne and I was feeling very worried.”

“I kind of figured that,” Ronnie responded.

“Are we still talking about fear? ‘Cause I’m afraid of mentioning my love of fine wines and such around you ‘cause I don't want you to think I’m a failure.” Ronnie felt a little saddened by this, but Brandon continued. “Sometimes we’re at restaurants and I want to order some girly margarita but I don't because I want you to be proud of me. I wanna go to Margaritaville.”

“You shouldn't be scared of something like that, Brandon. It would be hypocritical of me to get stupidly angry at something like that considering I still go drinking with the guys.” Ronnie said. Then, he suddenly got an idea, “How about we make a deal? You can order girly margaritas and drink wine and champagne and as long as you don't take it too far we’ll be good.” 

Brandon was visibly conflicted, so Ronnie clarified what he meant, “There’s a difference between you having a glass of wine at dinner and you drinking whiskey straight from the bottle at three A.M. to forget how stressed you are, Brandon.” 

“I know!” Brandon reassured. “I’m just a little worried about it because everything was so bad before and I don't want that to happen again.” 

“It won't because I’ll be here,” Ronnie pointed out. “And you don't have to do it if you don't want to. I'm just letting you know that I won't be jumping down your throat if you want a drink every once in a while. That would make me seem like a controlling asshole.” 

Brandon smiled shyly, “Thank you. I really appreciate that a lot.” 

“And I am proud of you. I am very proud that you have finally gotten over this and I hate that all of this had to happen once things started getting good again because you deserve a break.” 

Brandon perked up, “Speaking of breaks—it’s way too late to be up and I want to go to sleep right now.”

“I can help you with that,” in one swift movement Ronnie pulled Brandon towards him, making Brandon grasp onto the man to avoid falling on the floor. The singer laughed, reaching behind Ronnie’s neck once more so that he wouldn't fall. The very short walk to their bedroom was anticlimactic but Brandon spoke up at the end.

“I love you,” he said. “I really, truly do. And if I can't love you in public then I’ll have to love you twice as hard when we’re at home.” He leaned forward and gave Ronnie a long, tender kiss that was only cut short by Ronnie deciding to drop Brandon on the bed in the middle of it. 

Ronnie crawled into his side of the bed, smiling, as Brandon called him obscene things as payback for dropping him. He embraced moments like this with open arms, especially knowing that the next morning might bring even worse hardships. 

* * *

Their talk the night before seemed to help, Ronnie thought. Both he and Brandon were in better spirits than they had been the previous morning and Ronnie warmly welcomed the change in mood. The couple had fallen asleep nearly the moment their heads touched their pillows but they still woke up late considering when they got in bed.

Brandon was lounging on the sitting room couch with his dog, humming a tune Ronnie had never heard before. The drummer silently hoped that the singer was dreaming up a new song to show the band, but didn't mention to the other man.

Brandon suddenly stopped humming and Ronnie looked up from where he was making lunch in the kitchen to see the younger man frowning—it was at that moment Ronnie realized that Brandon was probably nervous. The singer caught his gaze, however, and quirked a brow at him, “What are you making?” 

“Lasagna,” Ronnie replied. “Dave likes lasagna.” 

Brandon squinted at the older man, “What about Mark?” 

“He had a thing he had to do with his girlfriend,” Ronnie replied. “He offers his moral support, though.” Brandon smiled.

“He’d better,” the singer rested his head on the couch’s armrest. “How is this going to play out, then?” 

Ronnie put the dish he had been preparing in the oven and went to sit with Brandon, “We’ll email whatever we say to Jeremy and then we won’t have to deal with it anymore.”

“I don't think that's true.” Ronnie sputtered. Brandon clarified, “The dealing with it, I mean. With the new album cycle, I doubt that today will be the last time we deal with this. Better timing would have been during the break.”

Ronnie snorted and feigned a fake southern accent, “God, I sure do wish the tabloids would’ve picked a better time to accuse me of being a homosexual!” Brandon giggled and leaned to the side, bumping the drummer with his shoulder.

“I don’t sound like that!” The singer retaliated. Ronnie shrugged—he honestly didn't know where Brandon’s phony accent had come from, but it definitely wasn't Vegas.

“You're right,” Ronnie said, emphasizing his vowels. “You're one of them ones that go both ways, ain’t ‘ya?”

“I’m glad Dave isn't here right now,” Brandon said, still snickering. He leaned up to give the drummer a kiss when the doorbell suddenly rang—Brandon rolled his eyes. “So much for that, then.” He leaned back in a jarring motion, looking very annoyed, and went to get the door. Ronnie’s eyes trailed the other man as he looked through the window curtains before opening the door, noting that the house was darker than usual. 

“Later,” Ronnie promised, waving his hand dismissively. The singer glanced back at him one last time before opening the door.

“David!” Brandon exclaimed, glad to see the man.

“Brandon!” Dave seemed less thrilled. Brandon moved back and almost immediately the couple’s dog surged forward to greet the new person in the entryway. Nikita always got excited whenever Dave came over, for whatever reason. Dave preferred felines, himself, but he always humored the husky whenever they were together. 

“She likes you more than me,” Ronnie said from his spot across the room.

“It’s ‘cause she sees him and thinks he's one of them water spaniels,” Brandon quipped. Dave chuckled lightly, attention still focused on Nikita. 

“I can't tell if you're insulting me or calling your dog stupid,” was Dave’s rebuttal. 

Ronnie stood and stretched, his joints popping as he did so, “Maybe that says something about you, then, if you can't tell when Brandon is disparaging you.” 

The singer made a noise of disgust, “You two always gang up on me,” he pouted.

Ronnie appeared next to his boyfriend, slinging an arm around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “It's just ‘cause we care about you, baby doll.” 

Dave gagged, “Speak for yourself.” He muttered. “Do I smell lasagna?” 

“Not ready yet. We have work to do,” Ronnie said. Brandon grimaced at the mentioning of what they had assembled for, letting himself get dragged back to the dining table by Ronnie. The singer eyed Dave as the guitarist sat down, patting the table and saying something that  _ implied  _ he would be joining them for Thanksgiving—the singer smiled to himself. 

The three men sat in silence while Ronnie opened his laptop and started the computer up. Brandon slumped over with a sigh and rested his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the table. Eventually, Ronnie looked up expectantly.

“I…” Brandon started. “I could get a fake wife-” 

“Oh, God,” Dave interrupted. “No, that is not the answer. Holy shit.”

It would be a long day.

* * *

Brandon laid on top of the bed and tapped away at the keys of his laptop. He was indulging in his new nightly ritual of scouring the web, trying to scavenge anything he could about speculations of his hidden relationship. Fortunately, he was usually unlucky in his searches. This didn’t keep his heart from racing as he clicked through several pages online, terrified that each click would show him something he didn’t want to see. It was a horrible thing to do to himself, especially right before bed, but if something new was circulating about him and Ronnie, he wanted to know.

His boyfriend, however, hated this nightly ritual.

“Brandon,” Ronnie spoke over running water from behind the barely open bathroom door, “Put the laptop away.”

“I’m almost done, don’t worry.”

“Have you found anything?” Ronnie inquired.

“Uh,” even though Ronnie couldn’t see him, Brandon looked down at his lap bashfully, “No.”

“If I’m correct then that’s the... second night in a row without anything circulating about us.”

“Yeah,” the singer muttered under his breath.

“What was that, baby?”

“Yes! You’re correct,” Brandon sighed frustratedly and shut his laptop.

“I’m not trying to make you upset, B, I’m really not. I just know that there’s no reason to keep looking. You won’t find anything.”

“I know, I know,” Brandon rubbed his face, “I just want to make sure.”

“Well,” Ronnie spoke before turning off the sink, “I can assure you that if there was anything out there Jeremy would let us know faster than you could open the page.”

Brandon scowled, “He was a week late last time.”

The light from the bathroom shut off and Brandon’s attention shifted to the half-opened door.

“I am rarely wrong, monsieur,” the drummer spoke from behind the door in an extremely poor French accent.

“What was that?” Brandon chuckled and quirked an eyebrow in confusion.

“I said,” the drummer suddenly jumped out from behind the door, “I am rarely wrong, monsieur!” 

It wasn’t uncommon for Ronnie to be weird—he was a drummer, they’re like that. However, there was something different about this time, for when he revealed himself from behind the door he had a straight mustache across his upper lip.

Brandon’s body shook in sudden laughter, “You did not!”

“I did not… do what?” Ronnie swiftly made his way to the bed and crawled next to Brandon, “Tell me, mon amour!”

“Why the fuck do you have a mustache?”

“Eh… it’s a-new album, new me. Correct, monsieur?” 

“Okay,” it was hard for Brandon to speak through his chuckling, “You’ve gotta stop with the accent.”

“What do you mean? I’ve always spoken like-a this! Je viens de France!” Ronnie punctuated his last statement by slamming his fist down on the bed confidently.

“Growing a mustache doesn’t make you from France, Ron.”

“Oh hon hon hon,” Ronnie laughed in that stereotypical French way, “you understood-a me, monsieur? You like-a the French Ronnie, no?”

“You sound like Mario for fuck’s sake,” Brandon cackled, “cut it out.”

“Mario is Italian,” Ronnie frowned, “So, you no like-a the French Ronnie?”

“Stop!” Brandon was still giggling when Ronnie connected their lips, causing his smile to mirror onto Ronnie’s lips.

Ronnie gently pushed Brandon back onto the pillows while the singer wrapped his arms around Ronnie’s neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Ronnie eventually pulled away with a smile still spread across his face, “I missed your laugh.”

“Your mustache is ridiculous,” Brandon giggled, “How could I not laugh?”

“Oh,” Ronnie settled back into his French persona, “So it-a wasn’t the French?”

Brandon tilted his head back in a brief laughing fit, and Ronnie felt his heart warm in his chest as he laughed along.

Their lips were soon together again, and Brandon pushed Ronnie onto his back so that he could sit on his lap. In this new position, Ronnie cradled Brandon’s face in between his hands as their lips moved in unison. As the singer straddled Ronnie’s hips, it amazed Ronnie how little Brandon truly was. He often forgot as Brandon’s personality tended to compensate for his petiteness. 

Ronnie moved his hands from the side of Brandon’s head to his hips, where his thumbs then graced over the protruding bones that descended to his pelvis. Brandon’s hands were placed on either side of Ronnie’s head, fingers gently digging into their bed’s comforter.

With the chaos of the past week, the couple were hardly ever in the mood to be intimate with each other. Ronnie was far too concerned about Brandon, and Brandon was far too concerned about the obvious. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Brandon felt a sense of ease melt over his body. Even if it was temporary, it was hard to worry about anything else when Ronnie was kissing him the way that only he could.

Ronnie’s hands slid from Brandon’s hips to gently grab Brandon’s ass. The singer sighed against the touch, signaling to Ronnie that he was welcome to touch him like that once again.

The drummer’s hands squeezed Brandon in his hands, making the younger man sigh once more before sliding his tongue into Ronnie’s mouth. Ronnie used his grip on Brandon’s ass to grind his bulge down onto his own—Brandon wasn’t the only one who noticed their recent lack of intimacy.

Brandon moved one of his hands to run through Ronnie’s (recently cut) hair. He’d always loved his longer hair, but this change was exciting in a way. When Brandon tugged at his hair slightly, he felt a hand come down on his ass in a smack. The singer immediately whined and bucked his hips, grinding his crotch onto Ronnie’s again.

Ronnie took Brandon’s bottom lip in between both of his and sucked, tugging Brandon’s mouth impossibly closer to his. He bit the lip softly before letting go, eliciting a brief moan from his boyfriend. With his mouth still open slightly, Brandon moved his lips to Ronnie’s neck and began leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses. Ronnie hummed beneath him, which turned into a muttered curse as Brandon’s teeth met his skin ever so gently. Brandon rolled his tongue over where he had just gently bit before moving further down. He cherished certain secrets about Ronnie that only he knew, including the sweet spot right where his neck met his collarbone. When Brandon’s lips connected to that spot, Ronnie’s hands started kneading Brandon’s ass as he let out a sigh. When Ronnie felt teeth against that ever-so-sensitive spot, his breath hitched and his hand came down on Brandon’s ass hard. The singer moaned against his neck, only serving to turn him on more.

Brandon was eager to get his lips back to Ronnie’s, and he did so less than gracefully. One of Brandon’s hands traced the hem of Ronnie’s shirt, hinting that he longed for it to be off. Their hips were moving in sync with each other—Brandon pushed down while Ronnie gently pushed upwards. Their sweatpants muted the friction their bulges both needed, but they had all night to get those out of the way.

* * *

Two days passed without anything noteworthy happening, something the couple was very glad for. The forty-eight hours had to end eventually though, and when it did things went wrong again.

It was forty-seven hours and fifty-eight minutes later when Brandon was sitting in bed, scouring the internet for anything that might tell him something is wrong. Ronnie was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. 

“All I’m saying is that if Nikita is gonna keep jumping into the pool I’m not gonna keep giving her baths. She’s clearly got that aspect of her life handled.” Brandon spoke up so that Ronnie could hear him from down the hall. 

“She’s only getting wet, not washed, Brandon.” The drummer’s voice was muffled and Brandon could tell he was brushing his teeth. “The pool is getting dirty.” 

“Some dog particles ain't gonna get the pool all dirty-” Brandon stopped mid-sentence. His fingers hovered over the laptop’s trackpad as his eyes scanned the page he was on. 

“Brandon?” Ronnie asked after the singer had not continued. “You okay?” Brandon did not answer, which led Ronnie to believe that an incident had taken place. The singer heard the other man spit into the sink before he appeared in the doorway. 

Brandon didn't look up, however, and he continued to reread the page. Mind racing at one hundred miles a minute, he hardly noticed Ronnie approaching him and before he knew it the laptop was being twisted out of his lap. Neither of them spoke as Ronnie took in the new information. 

Once he had finished reading, Ronnie started, “Brandon-” 

“They don't believe us.” Brandon was still looking straight ahead where his laptop used to be. “They don't believe-” 

“That’s not what they’re saying, Brandon.” The singer had unconsciously begun to raise his hands to his face but the drummer grabbed his wrists before he could finish, snapping Brandon out of his haze. “You know that’s not what that means.” 

“Fucking TMZ, oh my God,” was all Brandon could find the words to say. “They don't believe us-” 

“Brandon!” The singer jumped, startled at Ronnie’s change in tone. “They didn't say anything about that. All they did was a report on it—it’s news.” Brandon stared at the wall ahead of him as he contemplated what his boyfriend said. 

“No,” he wormed out of Ronnie’s firm grasp and attempted to stand, pushing the drummer out of his way. “I’m going to be sick.” He said curtly. It was as if he was running but didn't know where to go. 

“You’re fine,” the drummer returned to Brandon’s side and wrapped his arms around the smaller man. “They didn't say anything bad about us-” 

“They’re drawing attention to it.” The singer’s voice was muffled by Ronnie’s chest. Admittedly, Ronnie had not thought about the situation that way. He began to rock the two of them back and forth in an attempt to calm Brandon. 

“Everything will be-” 

“I can't do this,” Brandon interrupted. Ronnie felt his heart drop as he watched Brandon fiddle with the ring on his finger before finally taking it off. The drummer took a step back in disbelief. 

Brandon held the ring out to Ronnie and said in an emotionless, tired voice, “I’m not breaking up with you.” 

“Oh?” Ronnie squeaked. “‘Cause that’s what it looks like!” Brandon shook his head.

“ _ We’re  _ drawing attention to it. We can't just walk around with matching rings and it not look like something is going on.” Brandon pushed forward, arm still outstretched towards Ronnie. “You keep yours on for now.” The singer had come up with the idea so suddenly that it was hard for Ronnie to believe that he had not already been planning this.

Ronnie reluctantly let Brandon drop his ring into the palm of his hand, “Shouldn't I get rid of mine too?”

“No,” Brandon answered, still visibly shaken. “If we both do it at the same time it’ll look even worse.” Ronnie flinched at the singer’s bluntness.

The drummer looked down to the little ring he held. It was almost laughably ironic how the photo that started the debacle they were now in was taken the day Ronnie had gotten the idea to get the rings in the first place. He held onto the memories surrounding the piece of jewelry for a moment, thinking back on when he had given it to Brandon—a simpler time.

How Brandon almost had a heart attack thinking that the drummer was proposing to him. How surprised he was when Ronnie told him that he loved him for the first time, thinking himself undeserving of love. 

Ronnie was brought back to reality when Brandon shuffled awkwardly in front of him.

“I love you, you know?” He played with his hands, no longer having anything to fidget with now that his beloved ring was gone. “I feel like I don't say it enough.”

“You're enough,” Ronnie replied, keeping back invisible tears. “You're more than enough.”

* * *

 

**Chapter IV: _This Feeling Won't Go_**

 

**** Brandon dug through one of the many cardboard moving boxes in his house’s “box room” (every good home should have one). Sweating lightly from minimal work, he wondered aloud how they could possibly have so many boxes considering that his original apartment was incredibly small. It seemed like all that was in the boxes was useless junk—Brandon could probably throw it all out without checking the boxes contents and he wouldn't feel an ounce of remorse, but he was a man on a mission. 

So far he had found a set of empty picture frames, some stuff from his first and only day at the University of Las Vegas, his 1997 Morrissey tour shirt (which he had lost, somehow), and a stack of empty CD cases from his and Dave’s days handing out demos at bars. Dejected, Brandon grunted as he pushed another box full of what could be described best as literal trash.

“Ronnie!” He shouted as he pulled one of the leftover boxes toward himself. Upon opening it, on the very top he found a pillowcase with Morrissey’s face on it. Eyes wide from the shock of the encounter, Brandon swiftly folded the cardboard flaps back over and, with his foot, pushed the box as far away as possible. 

“Ronnie!” He yelled again after getting no response. The singer got back on his feet and collected the picture frames, propping them up on the wall and making a mental note to use them one day. They probably had hundreds of pictures that would look good in them—Ronnie liked pictures. 

Remembering his boyfriend, Brandon screamed for him again. And again. And again. “Ronnie!” He whined, “I’m dying! Please!” No response. Annoyed, the singer trudged out into the upstairs loft and hung his head over the stairwell. He called the drummer’s name again, lengthening the vowels until he was out of breath. Being that he was a man who sang to people for a living, this lasted a very long time. After a moment, Brandon heard footsteps heading in his direction. Soon enough, Ronnie appeared at the bottom of the stairs, craning his neck up to see the now grinning Brandon. 

“Oh my God,” Ronnie said once he caught sight of the singer. “What do you need?”

Brandon scoffed, “I’ve been calling you for, like, five minutes!” 

The drummer was dumbfounded, staring at Brandon open-mouthed for a good couple seconds. “You were upstairs and I was halfway across the house! In the closet! Packing!” He put his hands on his hips, “Which is something you should be doing too!”

“I’m workin’ on it,” Brandon replied. “Have you seen my aviators?”

“No? Not in at least two years.” Ronnie sounded confused. “Did you have that whole hissy fit because you couldn't find your sunglasses?” The singer ignored him.

“Speaking of packing,” Brandon said, turning the corner and making his way down the stairs, “Nikita will be coming with us and we need to prepare.” 

“What?” Ronnie asked, eyeing Brandon as he passed him and made his way into the kitchen. Following, Ronnie asked, “Since when?” 

Brandon stopped in his tracks and turned back to the drummer, “We ain’t leaving Niki alone again. Not in my house.” He then went back to what he was doing and grabbed a nectarine from the fridge.

“We don't live in your house anymore, Brandon. This is my house,” Ronnie said. Brandon glared up at Ronnie but it didn't do much good for his cause when the juice from his nectarine spilled down his chin.

“I pay the bills! I contribute!” He said after wiping the juice away with his hand. It was no use, though, seeing as Brandon immediately took another bite and it happened again. 

“Not since the incident at the beginning of the year, you haven't,” Ronnie pointed out. 

Brandon, covered in sticky nectarine juice, stayed persistent. “She’s coming,” he said. “She wants to see the world—she told me! She’s still little enough, I think!”

“She won't like the bus,” Ronnie said. By this point, Nikita had awoken from her nap and had come to the kitchen after hearing her name used so many times. “She won't like the planes! Dogs don't like planes!”

“You know full and well that she loves car rides, you fuck.” Brandon squinted in Ronnie’s direction and tried his hardest to look intimidating while eating a nectarine. “We can get her that dog medicine for planes and then we’ll match!”

“We can't just get her drugged up!” 

Brandon looked down at the dog and asked in his baby-voice, “Do you wanna get drugged up?” Nikita perked up and began to wag her tail, probably thinking that she was about to get a treat. “Niki wants to get drugged up! It’s okay because daddy does it too!”

Ronnie finally broke, sighing. “I’ll ask Jeremy about it.” Brandon grinned, tossed the nectarine pit into the trash, and made his way back towards the stairs.

“Now I just need to find my suitcase…” he said mostly to himself. Ronnie rolled his eyes but chuckled still. They were leaving for a warm-up tour in the United States and the United Kingdom in only a few days and Brandon still had not started packing—typical. 

They couldn't bring Nikita—Ronnie knew this. It was too short of a notice and they already had plans to let Brian Karscig look after her again. Brandon’s persistence came from either one of two places: his reluctance to associate with Brian (which was unlikely considering Brandon had stopped being petty about the incident a year after it happened and they were back to being friends) or the fact that Brandon just wanted something to remind him of home while on the road. They would only be gone for three weeks before taking a short break and going to the Pacific Northwest for a couple of days in December. They could bring Nikita then and if things went well she could come with them for real in mid-January when they left for the full tour. His plan was good, Ronnie decided, so he chose not to talk to Jeremy about it.

In a twist no one saw coming, Ronnie was worried about the upcoming tour. It would be the first time since the incident concerning the tabloids that they would be under the spotlight again and Ronnie knew that they would be interviewed one hundred times in the next month about the new album. The story about him and Brandon had not gained any traction since TMZ reported on it a couple of months back but that didn't mean that it wasn't common knowledge for anyone reporting on the album. Any person planning on interviewing them would probably research them first and that was one of the most recent stories published about them. Interviewers were sharks—he and Brandon were dead in the water.

Brandon was another concern altogether. The man had become a bit of a hermit, only going out when absolutely necessary to avoid any unwanted interaction. The two of them had stopped going out for leisure a while ago and it was honestly starting to frustrate Ronnie. His own home felt constricting as Brandon continued to keep blinds and curtains drawn in a frivolous attempt to shut out all of society. It was unnecessary—their home already had large walls around it for privacy and it even had a gate! No one was getting in—no one wanted in. It worked out for Brandon in the end, though, because he didn't want out either.

Ronnie didn't want to be overdramatic and say that his house was a prison—it wasn't. He could leave any time he pleased and Brandon was fine with that, stating that the drummer probably wouldn't get recognized anyway. The only problem was that when he was home, he felt claustrophobic. When he was away from home he felt lonely—it was laughable to ask Brandon to join him at this point; the man was almost too anxious about it to function. Almost. 

Ronnie had no idea how the younger man would act while on the road, now. Brandon had told him that he was excited to get back out there but Ronnie just didn't see how he could be when the man was too afraid to go to the store to get groceries. That was what Brandon said before every tour, anyway, and he was always miserable by the end.

“Black-out windows,” Brandon answered one day. “No one can see into black-out windows.” 

“We won't be alone, though,” Ronnie replied. “The other guys will be there, too.” 

“That’s fine! They already know, anyway.”

Brandon couldn't hide in the bus all day—that wasn't  _ fine _ .

Brandon was in denial, Ronnie thought. 

Lately, though, Ronnie wasn't so sure. After being stuck at home constantly, Brandon had become very close with the drummer, staying by his side almost the entire day. It was endearing as Hell, sure, but how would that translate into bus life? 

Brandon loved playing shows with his whole heart and he’d never trade it for anything but Ronnie knew he was  _ never  _ happy while on tour. Excited at the beginning, ready to sleep forever by the end. 

It would be hard, Ronnie knew, but when wasn't it? 

* * *

Brandon woke to a hand drifting slowly through his hair, fingers swirling in thoughtful circles. He shut his eyes again and savored the moments between being fully asleep and completely awake as shivers were sent down his spine from the hair-playing. After contemplating whatever dreams he had the night before, he felt his heart sink as reality hit him.

Opening his eyes and becoming adjusted to the lowlight, in a sleepy voice he asked, “What’s the time? When’re we gettin’ to the airport?” 

His boyfriend hushed him and went to stroke his cheek now. “Don't worry ‘bout it—we have plenty of time.”

Brandon yawned and leaned further into Ronnie’s warmth, “But, we still gotta get Niki to Brian and pick up my prescription and-” 

“Let me just enjoy your presence for now, baby doll.”

Brandon wanted to protest but the hint of remorse in his boyfriend’s voice kept him quiet. 

* * *

Tour life was… complicated. New York went well enough, Ronnie thought—they had gotten hotel rooms for their five day stay in the Big Apple and Brandon wasn't completely opposed to being seen in public again. This was a good sign but as time progressed he noticed the physical distance between the two. Brandon was no longer glued to his side, often standing anywhere but next to the drummer when having their picture taken or simply just when walking somewhere. It made some sense that Brandon would want to keep a safe distance—it could have been that the man was just fond of the change in scenery, becoming tired of spending every waking hour with his boyfriend.  _ That  _ made sense and Ronnie honestly didn't mind it as much as someone else might have but maybe that was just because he knew that the reason why was more complicated than that. It  _ wasn't  _ just that Brandon was tired of spending time with Ronnie—he was still scared of the reporters.

Ronnie was, too, but he didn't think that Brandon refusing to stand next to him was going to help the situation any. 

Disaster was avoided in New York and their stay soon enough came to an end. Back on the plane they went, this time heading for Paris. The singer seemed more at ease with the idea of being in Europe seeing as they probably wouldn't care about any small American media about two guys being in love. Things looked better, Ronnie thought. Brandon, too, seemed more cheerful once they were heading for France, telling Ronnie about how he was going to buy more fancy European chocolate while they were gone before his pills kicked in and sent him off to sleep. After Paris was London—a place they were incredibly excited to return to considering that it was the place where their relationship basically began.

It was in London where Brandon got his special chocolate. Ronnie had taken him to his favorite place to buy sweets before they headed to the venue for that day’s show. Somehow, Ronnie had convinced Brandon to walk there with him because it was such a short distance away. The fresh air in his lungs combined with the expensive chocolate in his stomach seemed to increase Brandon’s mood. 

While waiting to cross the road to the venue, Ronnie grinned to himself and leaned to his right, bumping Brandon in the shoulder. 

“I was close—only a year off.” He said. Brandon looked up at him, confused. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Ronnie chuckled lightly, “You have no concept of the passage of time, do you?” 

Brandon’s eyebrows furrowed as he peered across the street, trying to understand what Ronnie was going on about. Once they began to cross the street, Brandon began to understand the significance of what was going on. 

Right in front of them stood the highly embellished Royal Albert Hall, and it had taken them not ten—not six, but only five years to get there. 

The excitement of the past couple of years had caused them to fly by at an alarming rate. It was almost 2009—the thought hit Brandon like a bag of bricks as he realized that they had truly made it. He was getting old.  
The couple made their way around to the staff entrance (after saying hello to a few dedicated fans) and Ronnie held the door open for Brandon, “After you, sir.” 

Ronnie trailed Brandon and on the way they greeted the many friendly faces they saw—Robert, their manager; Anna, the band assistant; even the lighting director that Ronnie had lovingly dubbed “Potato”. Most of the people who worked on the tour knew about the couple’s relationship—at least the bare minimum. That the two of them were in a relationship and that it was a very hush-hush topic. At first, they were unsure if it was a good idea but everything worked out eventually. Ronnie hoped that he could ease Brandon into the idea of letting more people know this way; whether it takes ten years or two weeks. 

Once they had made it to their dressing room, Brandon fell back onto the couch with a sigh and peeked into his bag of chocolate. Ronnie watched disgustedly as the younger man decided on a piece of white chocolate.

“No offense, that’s awful,” he said, shaking his head. Brandon snorted and popped the sweet into his mouth.

“No offense, but  _ you’re  _ awful,” Brandon retaliated. “All chocolate is good chocolate, Ron, don't you know that?” 

Ronnie went to sit down next to the other man and took a piece of dark chocolate from the top of Brandon’s bag. “Not that kind, though.” 

“Did you know,” Brandon started, pointing a finger in Ronnie’s face. “That people who like white chocolate usually like all the other kinds of chocolate but that dark chocolate lovers are assholes who don't like equality between flavors?” 

“That doesn't make any sense, Brandon.” Ronnie gave Brandon one of those looks that you might give a distant family member when asked to hold a baby. 

“It’s like with cat people and dog people, you know?” The singer continued. “‘Cause cat people usually like dogs, too, but I don't think I’ve ever met a dog person who hasn't claimed that a cat killed their family, or something. I like the concept of cats but I’m allergic to them.”

Ronnie tried his hardest to hold in his laughter, “Holy shit, is that chocolate laced with something?” 

Brandon looked down at his sack of candy and inspected the packaging of the white chocolate. “No…?”

“Speaking of which,” Ronnie had been rolling his chocolate’s tin wrapper into a ball and flicked it at Brandon’s head. “Do you take constructive criticism?”

Brandon huffed, “Depends on what you mean by constructive.” 

“Last night? At the Bush Hall? You seemed kind of… stiff.” Admittedly, the problem had started a week prior, but Ronnie decided not to mention it too soon. Brandon quirked a brow and gave the drummer a credulous look. “It’s just that you haven't been as… talkative, I guess.”

“I’ve been tired lately,” Brandon reasoned. “It’s been a while, you know? But, I’ll try to more energetic,” he smiled devilishly. “I’ll put on a show for you, ‘kay?”

“Oh, God.” Ronnie gulped. 

* * *

“Shit!” Brandon cursed as he re-entered the dressing room around eight hours later, slamming the door behind him and Ronnie for good measure. “God! I’m a fucking moron, apparently!”

“Jesus, Brando, it wasn't that bad-” 

“A  _ fine specimen of a man _ ?” He quoted. “What was I thinking?”

Ronnie had to swallow up the thought of how hot his boyfriend looked while angry and covered in sweat and tossed a fresh towel to him. “It’s not as bad as you think it is—the crowd laughed! Do you not think I’m a fine specimen?”

Brandon sputtered from behind the towel and peeked back at the drummer, “That’s not what I said! I think you're hot!” 

At this moment, Dave entered the room. You could hear a pin drop as the three men delved into silence, staring at each other.

“I’ll just…” Dave pointed back to the hall. “I’ll just come back later.” With that, the curly-haired man disappeared. 

“I’m awful,” Brandon began, hanging his head in shame. 

Ronnie knew where the singer was heading and promptly stopped it before it even started. “Don’t say that Brandon—I mean it. You didn't do anything wrong and you are overreacting—everything is fine.”

Brandon slung the towel over his shoulder and let out a deep sigh. “Maybe if you didn't get half naked in front of everyone I wouldn't be pushed to do things like that,” he joked. 

“Well,” Ronnie grinned. “Maybe if you didn't saunter around wearing skin tight clothes I’d be able to control myself!” Brandon grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

“Listen,” the drummer started again. “Don't worry about what anyone thinks—if you get nervous about it people will think you’re being suspicious.” Ronnie didn't like what he was saying but he had to get Brandon to understand that he didn't need to be cautious all the time. “You didn't do anything wrong. If you feel guilty, you’ll look guilty.” 

Brandon’s arms were crossed and he was obviously deep in thought.

Ronnie desperately wished that things were simpler for them—that they could live worry-free and in love without being scrutinized like lab rats.

The only place they could be free was, of course, Brandon’s black-out bus. The bedroom, specifically. 

He looked childish in the way he was laying on the bed—flat on his stomach with his legs crossed behind him, his head facing the foot of the bed. In front of him was his lyric notebook and a mess of crumpled pages. The notebook was serving a different purpose in that moment, however.

The drummer walked through the door to the tour bus bedroom, “There you are, bud. Why aren’t you out front with the guys?”

“I’m busy,” Brandon mumbled and looked up at the drummer, “how was the interview?”

“Typical drum magazine stuff,” Ronnie shrugged and sat down next to Brandon’s mess on the bed, “and you’re busy with what?”

“Why did the BRIT Awards choose  _ me _ to make a speech about Pet Shop Boys?” Brandon dramatically let his head fall onto his notebook, tilted to the side to look at Ronnie.

“I dunno,” Ronnie said sarcastically, “maybe because Britain loves you, we have a new album out, and you’ve practically moaned about your love for Pet Shop Boys in every interview since 2004.”

Brandon rolled his eyes, “I know why they picked me, but why  _ me _ ? If they watched any of my interviews like you implied they did they’d see how fucking awkward I am.”

“That’s a hard fact to dispute, you do have a point,” Ronnie nodded with a smile. “Just make your speech good enough so no one notices the piss running down the front of your pants.”

“You’re a jackass,” Brandon mumbled through a smile, “and I’m struggling to write a good speech without sounding creepy or obsessive.”

“Well, you  _ are  _ creepy and obsessive, just don’t show it!” When Ronnie saw his words didn’t make the singer laugh, he changed the subject, “Lemme see what you have.”

After uncrumpling the sheets of discarded paper (to the best of his ability), Ronnie read the beginnings of four different speeches Brandon had written. He broke the silence between them, “Brandon all of these are great. Why did you toss them?”

“Because they  _ aren’t _ great.”

“Shut up. Look, if you combine all of these you’ll have a majority of your speech done. How long until the awards show?”

Brandon lowered his voice, “Two months… “

“Two months? Brandon, you have more than enough time to add anything you need to this. Trust me, what you have is really good.”

“Why should I believe you? You could just want me to make a fool out of myself onstage,” Brandon joked.

“I already saw you do that when you called me a ‘fine specimen of a man’ in front of five thousand two hundred people.”

“You suck,” Brandon deadpanned as Ronnie cackled suddenly, “did you know that? Did you know that you suck?”

“Come on,” Ronnie leaned down and kissed Brandon’s temple, “you know I’m just kidding.”

“I know, I know,” Brandon put his face in the palm of his hands, “I just feel like I’m gonna fuck it up.”

“No, no, no,” Ronnie cooed, “you’ve done so many other things that you were scared of. You opened for Morrissey, you went to the Grammy’s, you made a song with Lou Reed, you sold out stadiums, baby. This is nothing.”

“You think so?” Brandon muttered from behind his hands.

“Of course,” Ronnie’s voice was almost comically optimistic, “With this new album out and everything, the world is eating you right up. Especially in the UK. Really, you could go onstage and faint, and NME would rave you for your wonderful performance.”

Brandon snorted a laugh and looked at Ronnie again, “You’re ridiculous, honestly.”

“Nah,” Ronnie started rubbing Brandon’s back with his left hand, “Just in love.”

Brandon faked a gag, causing Ronnie to shove him in the shoulder. Brandon gave in to the push and rolled onto his back, “I’m just so nerved up about this thing.”

“Don’t be,” Ronnie kneeled over Brandon, “Everything will be alright.”

“You’re a cheesy fuck, you know that?” Brandon smirked.

“Yeah, but I’m  _ your _ cheesy fuck,” Ronnie leaned down and kissed Brandon on the lips softly. 

Brandon went to deepen the kiss by sliding his tongue into Ronnie’s mouth, but Ronnie pulled away, “One sec.”

The drummer proceeded to spit the gum he was chewing out of his mouth and onto the floor of their small room. Brandon hadn’t even noticed Ronnie was chewing gum until that moment, and for some reason watching him spit it out sparked something inside of him.

“God, please touch me,” Brandon whispered.

“Woah,” Ronnie smirked, “You’re just hopping right into the situation, aren’t you?”

“I just,” Brandon blushed, slightly embarrassed, “I want to get my mind off things. And we haven’t fucked or anything in-”

“Eighteen days… but who’s counting?” Ronnie smirked and Brandon returned the gesture. Brandon pulled Ronnie’s face to his again, locking their lips together with a sigh.

The drummer moved further down so that he could support himself on his side as they kissed while trailing his hand down Brandon’s body. Ronnie teased Brandon by running his fingertips under his shirt around his navel, then grazing them above the waistband of his sweatpants. The effect was noticeable, as a bulge began to form under the thin fabric. Ronnie stopped teasing the singer and finally slid his hand into the front of his pants, causing the singer to hum into the kiss.

Ronnie moved his mouth from Brandon’s lips to his ear, “You like that, baby doll?” 

“Y-yes,” the singer breathed out heavily. Ronnie’s hand started a steady rhythm on Brandon’s cock until the singer was panting with every movement. The one thing that was good about not having sex in over two weeks was how good it felt to finally be touched again.

Ronnie took his hand out of Brandon’s pants and pulled the singer’s sweatpants down to his knees. Brandon sighed as Ronnie wrapped his hand around the base and barely stroked upward. He repeated this painfully slow action once, then twice, then again before Brandon whined, “Why are you such a tease?”

“Say no more, baby,” Ronnie hummed with a wink before leaning down and wrapping his lips around the head of Brandon’s cock. The singer was already leaking when Ronnie took him into his mouth. Ronnie knew it wouldn’t take long for Brandon to finish, so he planned to draw this out as long as possible.

The drummer slowly stroked his hand up to where his lips wrapped around Brandon’s cock. His tongue circled the tip as Brandon writhed beneath him—he’s always been over-responsive.

“Holy shit,” Brandon shuddered, tangling a hand in Ronnie’s hair. Ronnie removed his hand from Brandon’s cock and started working his way down Brandon’s shaft until he felt his dick nearing his throat. The singer gasped once Ronnie took him all the way down.

“Ronnie, oh fuck,” Brandon whined, “I’m close, Ron.”

The drummer pulled off Brandon immediately, “Already? Damn! I’m good.” 

“God,” Brandon rolled his eyes, “why’d you stop?”

“I’m gonna make this last, baby, it’s been awhile,” Ronnie smirked, “On your stomach.”

Brandon obliged and rolled less-than-gracefully onto his front. Ronnie ran his hands from Brandon’s shoulders down to his back, where gently rubbed up and down, “Relax, baby… relax.”

“I was seconds away from coming and you stopped me so it’s not easy to relax,” Brandon retorted, slightly muffled by the bedspread.

“Shh… that’s not what a relaxed person would say…” Ronnie continued, a smile obviously coming through his voice.

One of Ronnie’s hands wandered lower while the other kept moving soothingly on Brandon’s back. Ronnie’s lower hand reached the singer’s lower back, right before the curve of his ass started. He suddenly raised his hand and landed it sharply on Brandon’s left cheek. 

“Ah!” Brandon yelped as he gripped the bedspread with white knuckles. The drummer savored the sight of Brandon bucking into the mattress, desperate for friction.

Ronnie brought both his hands to Brandon’s ass, kneading the cheeks in each hand, “You have a perfect ass, you know that right?”

“How sweet of you,” Brandon said sarcastically, earning him a hard smack on both cheeks in unison.

Once Brandon’s brief string of moans ended, Ronnie responded, “How sweet of  _ you  _ for letting me make it all mine.”

Ronnie’s calloused fingers danced over the soft, reddened skin of Brandon’s ass. Each touch made Brandon twitch slightly at the pain, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like it. In fact, he craved more.

“All yours?” Brandon teased, “Prove it.”

“On your hands and knees,” Ronnie gave Brandon’s left cheek another jolting slap, “now.” The singer whined as he got onto his shaky hands and knees, his body electric with want. 

Ronnie got on his knees behind Brandon, admiring both the view and the power he had in this position. Ronnie took both cheeks in his grip again and kneaded them slowly. Brandon’s head fell in between his shoulders, too desperate to beg Ronnie to do anything more.

Without warning, the drummer spread Brandon’s cheeks and flattened his tongue in between them, slowly dragging it between the cheeks. Brandon’s knees nearly buckled beneath him at the sudden feeling. His grip on the bed tightened as his head flew back with a moan, “Oh fuck, R-Ronnie!”

“You like that, baby doll?” Ronnie questioned through a smirk before smacking Brandon’s cheek again. Brandon moaned and shook under Ronnie’s touch, “Of course you do, baby.”

Ronnie returned his tongue to Brandon’s entrance, keeping it there for a longer time than before. He circled it for a minute or so as he continued to knead Brandon’s cheeks.

“M-more,” Brandon begged, “please Ron.”

Ronnie pulled away from Brandon, spread his cheeks, and spit directly on Brandon’s entrance. Brandon yelped and let breathy curses fall freely from his lips. Ronnie smirked, “You like that, little slut?”

Name-calling wasn’t new to the couple, but degrading was—and Brandon wondered why they had never done it before.

“Yes, sir,” Brandon briefly froze upon realizing what he said.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” Ronnie spanked Brandon before returning his tongue to Brandon’s hole. His nails were digging into the tender skin of Brandon’s ass, and the singer hoped there would be bruises there in the morning.

Ronnie slowly began to push his tongue into Brandon’s entrance, eliciting a drawn out “fuck” from the singer. The drummer brought his hand around Brandon’s thigh and to his dick. Brandon desperately bucked into Ronnie’s grasp as Ronnie continued to push his tongue into Brandon.

With another hard spank, Brandon moaned loud with another buck of his hips, “Ron, I’m so close, oh God.”

Ronnie pulled away from Brandon’s backside, “On your back, baby, on your back.”

With shaky movements, Brandon obliged and fell onto his back. He winced only briefly when his ass hit the bed. 

Quickly, Ronnie’s mouth descended onto Brandon’s cock. Circling his tongue around the tip, Ronnie let his hand stroke Brandon’s shaft fast and consistently. He could feel Brandon’s heat radiating from his body, and his lower stomach was twitching in the way it does when he’s close. 

“R-Ron! Fuck, Ron!” Brandon exclaimed before going suddenly quiet, his whole body jolting suddenly. Ronnie felt Brandon come onto his tongue and slowed his strokes to help him ride it out. Brandon’s silence turned into a stream of pants and high-pitched moans. He sounded absolutely spent.

Ronnie felt like he was going to come just from hearing Brandon’s whines, and he decided to pull off Brandon with a rather obscene popping noise. Looking at Brandon’s red cheeks and tousled hair, with his long eyelashes batting over dazed eyes, he felt an urge overwhelm him, “Can I come on your face, baby doll?”

“Yes,” the singer panted, “fuck yes.”

“Such a good little slut,” Ronnie quickly fumbled to unbuckle his belt and push his jeans out of the way. He knelt with his knees on either side of Brandon’s chest, his aching cock in between his fist.

“Oh, Ron,” Brandon sighed, “come for me, please come for me.”

Ronnie certainly didn’t last much longer, and with a deep groan he came on Brandon’s face. It landed on Brandon’s lips, cheeks, and even dotted some of his eyelashes. When the drummer opened his eyes again after his finish, he swore under his breath just looking at Brandon.

And then the best part of every fuck—the aftermath.

“Eww,” Brandon exaggerated, “get me a tissue, freak.”

“You didn’t seem to mind too much,” Ronnie panted, “slut.”

“You’re mean to me outside of the bedroom so I guess it’s only fitting that you’re mean to me in the bedroom as well,” Brandon chuckled, “now get me the tissue before my eyelashes are permanently stuck together.”

After a few minutes of cleaning each other up the couple fell onto the bed on their backs. Ronnie sighed, “You feel any better, baby?”

“Yeah, for now,” Brandon turned his head to look Ronnie in the eye, “looks like you just need to eat my ass whenever I’m worried about something.”

“Who would have thought?!” Ronnie faked amazement, “Imagine telling your therapist that… ‘yeah it’s really weird, I only feel better when I have an ass full of tongue and a face covered in come’.”

“You’re disgusting,” Brandon chuckled and sat up, “Let’s go make something to eat.”

“So, that translates to ‘Ronnie cook something for me’?”

Brandon chuckled and grabbed Ronnie’s hand, “Grilled cheese?”

“Anything for you, baby doll,” the drummer let Brandon pull him up of the bed.

When the couple got out to the lounge area, they greeted their crew and fellow bandmates, but Dave was the only one who didn’t look thrilled to see them.

“God, look at you two…” Dave sighed, “Thank God we paid extra for a soundproof bedroom back there.

* * *

 

**Chapter V: _I Can't Take Blame For Two_**

 

__ “I’m going to throw up,” Brandon ran his hands through his hair for the millionth time. “I’m going to trip and fall on the stage and everyone will laugh at me.”

“You’re going to do amazing,” Ronnie approached his boyfriend from behind and put two steady hands on his shoulders. “Everyone already loves you.” 

Brandon scowled at Ronnie through the mirror they were both looking in, “And after this, they will hate me.” 

“You’re being silly, Brandon.” Ronnie took his hands off the singer’s epaulets when he realized that he was disrupting their carefully placed feathers. Tsking, the drummer began to smooth the feathers out absentmindedly. 

“Are you preening?” Brandon asked, finding himself amused for a brief moment. 

Ronnie deflected the question but continued to run his fingers through the feathers anyway. “Your speech is great and you will do an amazing job.” Ronnie leaned over and kissed Brandon’s jaw from behind. “You’ve done harder things before.”

“What if when I try to raise my right eyebrow it doesn't go and I look like a fool?”

“You’re going to be on the stage—no one can even see your face from that far away!” 

“And- oh, God, Ronnie- Lady Gaga is going to be there!” Brandon panicked.

“You rehearsed with her! You’ve met her on at least two different occasions!” Ronnie wrapped his arms around Brandon’s person and rocked him slightly. “You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing. You’re going on stage in fifteen minutes—everything is going to be just fine.”

Brandon turned around in a swift movement and placed his hands on Ronnie’s waist, “I’m going to have a glass of champagne!” He gave the drummer a quick peck on the lips and promptly went to the food table in the dressing room.

“Here-” Ronnie followed after him and grabbed two glasses for both of them. Once he had poured both glasses full of the bubbly liquid, he held his out to Brandon. “A toast,” he said. “To a good speech and an even better performance!” 

Brandon grinned and clinked his glass with Ronnie’s, “I’ll drink to that!” After taking his sip, the singer spoke up again. “How about we drink to your birthday as well, mister? I wanna forget about the BRITS for a second.…”

“You literally just started your first glass!” Ronnie objected. “And you're a lightweight, now, anyway—only one glass for you tonight!”

Brandon frowned, grabbing Ronnie by his tie and pulling him close, “You’re no fun, baby,” he muttered. 

“I’m lots of fun,” Ronnie smirked, “black-out-drunk Brandon is no fun.”

“Lots of fun, you say?” Brandon leaned towards Ronnie’s ear and whispered in his best over-the-top breathy voice, “Show me fun.”

“Brandon, I’m not gonna fuck you,” a quick glance at his watch interrupted his sentence, “twenty minutes before your big speech.”

“Oh,” Brandon pressed his forehead to Ronnie’s, “did I say anything about fucking me? I don’t think I did. There are lots of other ways to have fun, y’know.”

“Well, since I’m no fun I wouldn’t know,” Ronnie hated how easily he always let Brandon win him over, “show me.”

Without wasting any of their time, Brandon pressed his lips against Ronnie’s with a sigh. Ronnie somehow managed to place his nearly-full champagne flute on a table next to them. Once his hands were empty, they landed on Brandon’s hips, pulling the singer closer to him. One hand traveled down to Brandon’s ass, grabbing it firmly and eliciting a soft whimper from Brandon’s lips.

Ronnie pushed Brandon towards the wall behind him, pinning their bodies as close to each other as possible. Brandon whined eagerly—he loved whenever Ronnie took control of him. Brandon wasted no time wrapping his legs around the drummer’s waist, desperately begging for more contact between the two.

Their tongues were now gliding against each other, the room was filled with obscene wet noises and soft mewls from Brandon. Once Brandon felt Ronnie’s bulge against his own, he begged, “Ronnie, please just fuck me now, please. Just distract me.”

“No time,” Ronnie’s lips moved to Brandon’s neck, where he licked and sucked gently—he was careful enough to know what would give Brandon and hickey and what wouldn’t. Brandon’s hips were moving wantonly towards Ronnie, movements that were pleading for more than what he was getting.

“Please, Ron, I’m so… I need you so bad.”

Ronnie pulled away from Brandon’s neck and pressed their foreheads together once more, “Look… how about you give your speech, and then you absolutely crush your performance, and after you come right back into this dressing room and I’ll fuck you stupid as your reward.”

Brandon smiled big and toothy, “That sounds like a good plan, Daddy.”

“What’d you call me?” Ronnie’s eyes widened slightly, and he felt himself twitch in his pants.

“Nothing,” Brandon dismissed and returned his lips to Ronnie’s, hot and fast.

With the singer’s legs still around his waist, Ronnie was able to hold him by the underside of his thighs as he moved the two of them away from the wall. Ronnie recalled the layout of the room in his mind and knew if he stepped back a few feet he would find his way to the sofa across from the Broadway-style mirror. Sure enough, the drummer felt the sofa hit the back of his knees and proceeded to drop into the seat. Ronnie knew Brandon would have more control this way, and he didn’t mind giving up some power to let his baby do what he wished.

Brandon began rutting himself against Ronnie’s bulge—he was so desperate for friction it seemed animalistic. Brandon pulled Ronnie’s bottom lip between his teeth, a soft, breathy moan escaping him as he did. Ronnie groaned, and soon found his hands wandering lower until he was kneading Brandon’s ass through his tight black jeans.

Brandon untucked Ronnie’s shirt from his pants and slid his hands underneath the fabric. His hands glided over Ronnie’s stomach, before reaching higher and caressing the firmness of his chest. Ronnie was always slightly insecure about his body around Brandon, but Brandon adored every part of it—even the hairy parts.

Ronnie savored the feeling of Brandon’s warm hands exploring his chest, and he pulled away from the kiss with a grunt. He stared lustfully into Brandon’s pupil-blown eyes as the singer bit his lip. Ronnie took one hand off Brandon’s ass and quickly replaced it with a firm smack. Brandon’s lip fell from his teeth as his mouth formed around a moan that escaped his throat.

Brandon returned their lips and practically began to ride Ronnie’s lap, not caring that he looked totally needy. Ronnie used the hands on Brandon’s ass to push him down onto him harder, causing the singer to whine louder than either of them expected. 

Which made it all the more frightening when a knock came from the dressing room door, “Brandon Flowers? You in there?”

“Uh,” Brandon quickly stood up from Ronnie’s lap and straightened himself out, “yes I’m here, I’m here.” The signature feather jacket he’d be wearing was hanging in the corner of the room, so the singer swiftly swiped it from the hanger and slipped it onto his thin frame.

“You gotta present in like ten minutes,” the voice through the door said, “please make your way to the presenter waiting area, Mr. Flowers.”

“Will do! Thank you,” Brandon’s voice was already shaky.

“Hey,” Ronnie stood up, “you’ll do amazing. Go kick that speech’s ass, baby doll.” The drummer cupped the singer’s face into his hands and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Thank you,” Brandon looked into Ronnie’s eyes like a scared child, “I don’t know what to do about my hard-on, though.”

“Just think about Dave until it goes away.”

“Oh, perfect,” Brandon smiled and turned towards the door, walking through and closing it behind him.

* * *

“Yeah, It’s a shame we didn't win but we were real honored to be nominated!” Brandon told the man interviewing himself and Ronnie. The award show had come to a close but almost everyone was still there, mingling at the afterparty. “We all really like Kings of Leon so we’re not too bummed about losing to them—they deserved the awards more than us!” Brandon chuckled nervously, still incredibly awkward in every interview. 

“They could use the publicity anyway,” Ronnie joked, causing the other two men to all chuckle lightly.

“Speaking of publicity,” the other man said in a fake optimism only a reporter could muster. “You two got into a bit of a pickle a couple of months ago.” Brandon furrowed his brows.

“What are you talking about?” He asked. He could practically feel Ronnie’s gaze burning into him. 

“You two were accused of some pretty scandalous things late last year—care to elaborate?” They were in a pickle  _ now,  _ Brandon thought. 

Before the singer could defend himself, Ronnie jumped into action. “It’s stupid,” the drummer said. “Brandon and I aren't in a relationship and we never will be.”

The man interviewing the pair thought that Ronnie’s comment was funny, laughing at them. “Not your type then, huh? I can understand, I guess.” Brandon flinched. “There’s got to be a reason, though, right? You were holding hands in the picture!”

“It was cold!” Brandon interjected suddenly. “My hands were cold—it was December!”

“Oh, how romantic of you, Ronnie!” The man said. “You sure you’re not interested?” 

The cold expression on Ronnie’s face made Brandon want to scoot away. “Brandon is my friend—no more. I’m not into anyone in the band and certainly not him.”

The reporter frowned. “Aw, what do you think, Brandon? You don't want to be with him either?”

“Uhm,” Brandon became distracted by the microphone that had been shoved in his face, “I… I don't think we would be a good match.” He gave a counterfeit smile to the reporter, “I don’t swing that way.”

The reporter inspected Brandon—head to toe. “You sure about that, baby doll?”

Brandon’s smile fell almost immediately. He stared at the reporter with an open mouth and a defeated look in his eyes.

“God,” Ronnie said suddenly. “You’re a fucking asshole, aren't you?” The drummer stood abruptly and locked arms with Brandon, heaving the smaller man up with him. Ronnie dragged the sputtering singer away and tried his hardest to ignore the reporter shouting to them. They weaved through the crowd, Brandon letting himself be tugged through the sea of people without an ounce of resistance. 

Brandon wished he was home. He imagined what he would be doing if he was back in Nevada without a care in the world. He’d probably be with Nikita, mindlessly watching a documentary of some sort, lounging comfortably on the couch. 

He was surrounded by too many people, he felt. The collar of his shirt was too tight and he couldn't seem to get a good breath of fresh air; the bodies made the room’s atmosphere hot and stale. As he was being tugged along Brandon couldn't find an opportunity to stop to catch his breath and he was choking on thick air-

Suddenly it was dark. 

Brandon’s arms shot out in an attempt to find anything with even a trace of familiarity. Ronnie had let go of him at some point, he knew, and he had to find him again.

Before the real panic set in, the lights flashed alive, blinding Brandon momentarily. He found himself in a single stall bathroom, Ronnie locking the door behind them.

Before the singer could say anything, he found himself engulfed in a hug by Ronnie. He didn't think that he had ever been held so tightly before. 

“I’m sorry,” it was hardly more than a whisper coming from the drummer. “I’m so fucking sorry, Brandon.” Despite the fact that Brandon had just been insanely claustrophobic, he felt safe in his boyfriend’s arms. “I love you so fucking much.”

The singer felt as if he was no longer in control of what his body was doing and found himself shaking as he wept fervently into Ronnie’s chest. 

“I didn't mean a single word of it, baby doll.”

Brandon winced at the pet name.

* * *

The cameras were getting old very fast. With only three weeks between the disaster that was the BRIT awards and the the last of two NME award shows along with the few concerts they played in between, the pair was growing weary from the constant watch. The shows they played wouldn't usually be a problem but after the incident at the BRIT awards they wanted nothing more than to simply return home, heads hung in defeat. 

Every fiber of Brandon’s being loved singing for their fans every night but it was times like these that made him wish he was a professional golfer. Or a valet parker—valet parkers at least didn't have to travel anywhere outside of parking a car.

Speaking of valet parkers—Brandon was currently watching a bad interaction between one of them and Dave. From the back of the car, he watched as the guitarist huffed in disbelief before returning to the car, slamming the drivers’ side door after he got in. Brandon listened with an idle mind as Dave started the car back up, ranting about the lack of parking spots provided to them. 

Brandon was not looking forward to the night’s activities—he kind of wanted to just eat his dinner and go to bed, in all honesty. He cursed NME for ever thinking it was a good idea to have two award shows that were almost back-to-back. They had ended up back on their home turf for the first, at least—that was one of the few upsides. They would be back in the seasonally warmer than usually USA for the award show and a little break before returning to London for NME’s UK award show. Brandon thought it was really stupid to have two award shows that were exactly the same except for the setting but he was glad he was home. Or, as close to home that he could get—the ceremony was being held in Los Angeles. 

The evening was slow and, dare he say, a little boring. The ceremony didn't have the fanfare that they were used to in England—there was only a low stage and the tables they all sat at in the dark, cramped room. Brandon was grateful that the band was nominated for anything in the first place, but it didn't help his irritated mood when a band that he had never heard of beat them in the ‘Best Live Band’ category. 

About three-quarters the way through the show, Brandon noticed Dave getting increasingly drunk off the many beers he had gotten from the servers that meandered around the room. The guitarist seemed to be having a good time, Brandon thought, and he contemplated joining him in the fun. 

Ronnie said that he could, after all. 

Brandon swore that he wouldn't get drunk, just tipsy, and flagged down one of the waiters that had chalices of red wine awaiting him on a silver platter. 

His mood increased from there. 

Arguably, Brandon's favorite drink had always been red wine (unless you count all the other, harsher drinks that he loved—like whiskey). As Ronnie had reminded him before, Brandon was a total lightweight after abstaining from alcohol for a solid  _ year _ . He lifted his glass to his mouth with a smile—he was proud of himself. 

So, the American variant of the NME awards wasn't terrible to sit through with the drink of the grapevine nestled in your stomach. The band had even gained two more of the profane middle finger trophies in the process—the only loss that was suffered was Mark, stuck at the airport. 

“Did you have fun?” Ronnie asked as they made their way to their hotel room. 

“Sure,” Brandon replied, only half there. He was tired, a little bit past tipsy, and desperate for sleep. 

“I think I have an idea for our little vacation,” Ronnie said, referencing the free time they had between then and them having to go back to London. “I think we should go camping.”

Brandon sputtered at the weird comment, “what the fuck?” He laughed. 

“It’ll be good for us!” Ronnie exclaimed. “No cameras in the great outdoors!” Ronnie took the hotel room’s key out of his pocket and slotted it into the door, “Niki can come, if you want.” 

Brandon barreled into the room once Ronnie had gotten the door open and flopped onto the bed the second he got to it, not even bothering to change out of his jacket and shoes. 

Ronnie scoffed at the younger man and went to take the singer’s shoes off, “So you’ll do it?” He asked. 

Brandon mumbled into the mattress and waved his arm at Ronnie.

“It’s a yes then!” 

So Brandon and Ronnie went camping. When Ronnie brought the subject up a few days later, Brandon was perplexed.  He remembered it being brought up to him that night but  _ not  _ him agreeing to it. Brandon loved camping, sure, but he had not gone in so long that if you asked him to assemble a tent he would probably break down crying. He had also only ever been camping in the forests of Utah—never the Nevadan deserts he claimed to know so well. The thought of camping in a desert honestly kind of freaked him out; no civilization as far as the eye could see. At least in the forest you were surrounded by nature. 

Ronnie had also rented a very secluded spot, apparently. Brandon didn't know if that comforted him or weirded him out more. It made sense—they were doing it to get away from people. The singer had just never been one-on-one with someone in the desert before (other than the times he and Ronnie went star-gazing, but that was only for an hour or so. They would be alone in the vast, open wasteland alone for a couple of days.).

Oddly enough, it felt like their first concert all over again. Excited tremendously, but also insanely nervous and worried that a mountain lion might come to eat you. Did they have mountain lions? Brandon wasn't sure. Scorpions were a given, though. Those even ended up in people's homes sometimes, somehow crawling through pipes and ending up in bathtubs. Brandon, like any good Las Vegas resident, knew proper bathtub scorpion procedure: screaming and calling your boyfriend to fix the problem in the most humane way possible.

“Think of it as one of those nature retreats that coworkers go on,” Ronnie said as he struggled to unpack the tent. It was just the three of them in the middle of nowhere; Brandon squinting at the sun, Nikita failing to catch a lizard from where she had been tethered to the truck, and Ronnie, grunting like an old man. 

“Do we not get along well enough?” Brandon asked, saluting the sun to keep it out of his eyes. He still had not found his aviators. 

“No!” Ronnie looked up from where he was hunched over and found Brandon sitting on the tailgate of his truck, legs dangling off. “I just… miss you sometimes.”

It sounded like a question to Brandon. The singer finally understood what their trip was truly for.

“You seem so distant, now.” Ronnie continued before going back to working on the tent. Brandon knew he was difficult to be around sometimes—especially since everything that had gone down. The singer didn't really know what to say.

“I kinda wanna get drunk tonight,” he cautiously said. “It might be fun. We can watch the stars.” 

Ronnie huffed—the contraption he had been dealing with finally looked somewhat liveable. “I didn't bring anything with me. Aren't we in a state park, anyway? I don't think that’s allowed.” Brandon shrugged.

“Some other time, then,” he felt like he was walking on eggshells. “We’ll still watch the stars, though.” Brandon watched the dusk sky for a long time. 

By the time that Ronnie had the tent erect, it was nearly dark out. Luckily, Brandon had been absent-mindedly pilling sticks into a pyramid formation for the better part of an hour. When his boyfriend sat near to him, Brandon scooted away slightly before getting out a lighter to start their fire. Something in Ronnie’s heart deflated when he noticed that the lighter in question was red, not blue. It was nearly lost in the sea of orange dirt they were surrounded by. 

Brandon shifted back further so that he was sitting next to his dog and out of the path of the smoke. It seemed to follow him like a ghost, though, and after a minute of shuffling out of the way he eventually gave up. 

“You know I love you, right?” Ronnie asked after a moment. 

Brandon looked surprised, “Yeah?” 

“It's just,” Ronnie started. “I feel like I haven't told you in a while.” Brandon gave a subtle smile and stared at the campfire. Ronnie couldn't tell if the tears in his eyes were from the smoke or not.

“I’m sorry,” Brandon eventually choked out. Before Ronnie could ask what he was apologizing for, Brandon continued. “I feel so fucking selfish right now.” That was unexpected. 

“What do you mean?” Ronnie kept his voice soft, “You're not selfish.”

“No,” Brandon rubbed his tired eyes. “I am. I'm awful. There is no ‘us’ in this relationship. It's always just me being a sack of shit and you dealing with it for some reason.”

“Brandon, that's not true-”

Brandon looked Ronnie in the eye, “When was the last time I asked about you? How you were doing? Feeling?” 

“What?” 

Brandon shook his head, “See. I never do. We're always too preoccupied with me.”

“Where is this coming from?” Ronnie asked, scooting closer to Brandon. “You're not making any sense.” 

“I never do…” Brandon muttered. 

“Listen,” Ronnie took hold of one of the singer’s shoulders. “You don't need to feel like a ‘selfish sack of shit’ just because you…” he had trouble picking out his words. 

What was Brandon?

He was something else, that was for sure. 

“Okay,” he finally continued. “You’ve got issues. Some of which that are major and some not but I honestly don't mind that. We'll get through this together, I promise,” Brandon didn't look too comforted. “And I've got issues, too! We all do! But I still love you!” Brandon smiled a little bit at that.

“Then tell me how you feel,” Brandon said. “What’s wrong?” 

What  _ was  _ wrong? Ronnie had been very preoccupied with worrying about their relationship for a while but he knew that Brandon didn't want to hear about that.

“I don't know,” Ronnie finally said. Brandon snorted at him and rocked back a little bit. “I really don't. I think I’m fine?”

“Not good though?” Brandon asked.

“I will be once we’re home,” he replied. “So I can stop worrying about everything.” Brandon rolled his eyes—he knew how that felt. 

“Has Dave talked to you about taking a break?” Brandon asked. “He and Mark want a vacation.” The singer sounded unsure of how he felt about the alleged break. “I think if we did it I’d go crazy.”

Ronnie watched as Brandon poked the fire with a long stick he had found earlier. The drummer liked the idea of taking a break—the way Dave had described it to him sounded very appealing whenever it came up. “He has a couple times,” he admitted. “But I can see why you’re hesitant to agree.”

Brandon had always been a workaholic. A break meant that Brandon didn't have to worry about writing an album for at least a year, a notion that Ronnie liked. His boyfriend was complex, though, and just because Ronnie thought it was time for some well-needed rest didn't mean that Brandon agreed with him. The ideal outcome of this scenario would lead to the both of them rekindling their fire and forgetting about record labels and album sales. What would realistically happen, however, would be the couple enjoying two or three months together before Brandon started to feel like he was wasting time doing nothing again. This had happened before—it wasn't pretty. 

A compromise was needed. If only there was a way that the band could rest up while Brandon continued on… independently. 

“What did you say?” Brandon asked. Ronnie looked up to find his boyfriend staring at him. “Something about independence?” 

“Did I say that out loud?” Ronnie must have let his thoughts slip. “It’s just… what if you… do what Morrissey did?” Brandon perked up.

“What now?” The singer’s soft features blended well into the glow of the fire, his eyes dangerously excited. “Go solo?” 

“It’s just an idea, but we could all take a break and if you were ready to get going again before everyone else then maybe you could do that.” 

Brandon was obviously apprehensive, “But I don't want the band to break up.”

“No, no,” Ronnie said. “You're confused—the band won’t break up. By the time you're done doing your thing, me and the guys will be ready to continue with band stuff.” Brandon, deep in contemplation, looked back at the fire. The smoke had stopped accosting the singer earlier, but Brandon’s eyes were still red and agitated. Nikita had continued to sit next to him despite the smoke and heat from the fire. 

“You don't have to decide right now,” Ronnie stated, making Brandon sigh. 

“Everything’s so complicated,” the singer’s head was now in his hands and he rubbed at his tired eyes.

An hour or so later, the couple decided it was time for bed. Brandon meticulously made sure the fire was out a solid five to six times before letting himself get in the tent with the drummer.

“You think Nikita will be alright out there for the night?” Brandon questioned as he laid down next to Ronnie.

“Brandon, it’s 50° out and her breed is literally meant to be outdoors in colder temperatures than this. She’s fine.”

“Well, yeah, but what about animals?”

“We’ll only be asleep for a couple of hours, the chances of a wild animal coming across our campsite is extremely rare.”

“You know,” Brandon scoffed, “just because you’re hairy doesn’t mean you know everything about the great outdoors.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Ronnie chuckled.

Brandon, realizing his statement was rather stupid, denied answering.

“If you’re really so worried, we can stay up a little while longer,” Ronnie whispered a minute or so later.

“And do what?”

“C’mon,” although Ronnie could barely see inside the dark tent, he turned on his side to look at Brandon’s faint silhouette, “what’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do in a tent?”

“What do you me-,” Brandon suddenly stopped, “No.”

“What?!” Ronnie laughed, “You’re the one who wants it so bad!”

“Look, I didn’t come here to have my fantasies made fun of, I came here to relax.”

“Then let me help you,” Ronnie stroked Brandon’s thigh with a smirk on his face.

“I regret doing that interview so much,” Brandon groaned.

“Why? Because you told our entire fanbase that you wanna have sex in a tent? Why would you  _ ever _ regret that?” Ronnie realized he might have been pushing the joke, but it was just too funny.

“You’re such an ass,” Brandon said, but Ronnie could tell he had a smile on his face.

Ronnie laid back down, and patted his lap, “Up, boy, up!”

“You’re so annoying,” Brandon quipped before giving in and straddling the drummer’s hips.

“C’mere,” Ronnie whispered as he cupped Brandon’s face in the darkness.

Brandon leaned down until he felt his lips press against Ronnie’s. The singer let his lips melt into the kiss along with all the excess worry he had been bottling up for so long. All that mattered in this moment was his boyfriend and the soft sounds of the desert wind at night. 

Ronnie slipped his hands under the back of Brandon’s briefs and began kneaded his cheeks. The singer sighed against Ronnie’s lips before pulling away, “Where the lube?”

“Fuck,” Ronnie said hesitantly.

“You didn’t pack lube?!”

“Technically you didn’t either!” Ronnie retorted, “And this was your fantasy! So…”

“Ugh,” Brandon groaned, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Get on your back, baby,” Ronnie muttered, “I’ll make the most of this.” Brandon did so, and in the process he slid his briefs down to his ankles. 

Ronnie began stroking Brandon with his right hand teasingly slow. The singer hummed in approval and tried to move his hips upwards in an effort for more friction.

With his left hand, Ronnie placed his two fingertips on Brandon’s bottom lip. The singer understood what Ronnie was implying and took the fingers into his mouth. He began, rather obscenely, sucking and licking the fingers the same way he would to Ronnie’s cock. Ronnie rewarded him for this by applying a firm stroke to Brandon’s dick, gliding his hand up and down rather quickly. The singer moaned around Ronnie’s fingers, and Ronnie decided his fingers were wet enough.

With a pop, the drummer’s fingers were removed from Brandon’s mouth and placed at the younger man’s entrance. Ronnie wrapped his mouth around the Brandon’s tip, eliciting a short whine from him. As he began a back-and-forth rhythm with his mouth and tongue, Ronnie began to slide his fingers into Brandon just as rhythmically. Brandon’s jaw dropped open with a moan and he moved his right hand to the back of Ronnie’s head. 

“Oh, fuck,” Brandon breathed out, “Ron.” The drummer hummed around Brandon’s dick at the mention of his name. 

Ronnie kept at this smooth rhythm for awhile, occasionally slowing down if he knew Brandon was getting close. Brandon’s hips were writhing as his body begged for a release, high-pitched moans and sighs escaping his lips as he teetered closer to the edge.

“Ronnie, please, please I’m so close,” Brandon’s grip on Ronnie’s head tightened as he felt himself finally release, “fuck!”

Ronnie dragged his lips up Brandon’s cock one last time, causing the singer to shiver subtly at the touch.

Without wasting any time, Brandon sat up and pressed his forehead to Ronnie’s, taking his cock into his hand almost immediately. 

“Yeah, baby,” Ronnie sighed and ran his fingers through the hair at the back of Brandon’s head, “god, you’re so hot.” It was sort of pathetic how close Ronnie had gotten just making Brandon feel good, but he was right: Brandon was so hot.

“Come for me, Ron,” Brandon bit and pulled at the drummer’s lower lip teasingly, “come for me.” Ronnie’s body tensed before relaxing shakily with a series of breathy groans as he released into Brandon’s fist.

They sat like that for a minute or so, foreheads pressed against each other, sneaking brief kisses once in awhile. 

Brandon pulled away first, “Do you have tissues?”

The drummer rummaged through his backpack at his side for a moment before pulling out a small travel package of tissues.

“Thanks,” Brandon muttered as he took them, “I guess you remember tissues but forget lube.”

“Remind me to never live out one of your fantasies ever again,” Ronnie replied, causing Brandon to break out into a goofy smile.

* * *

 

**Chapter VI: _Pray For Peace and Self-Control_**

 

**** “Can we run it again, boys?”

The band sighed in unison— they didn’t have too much of a choice. Brandon fought the urge to roll his eyes before returning to the microphone, “Sure thing.”

“Awesome, thank you.”

The Killers loved their stage crew—they really did! But after being instructed to run through the same songs over and over to get the perfect “flow”, part of them began to regret doing this concert DVD.

Royal Albert Hall had the capacity of over five thousand seats, excluding the general admission pit. In a few hours, the venue would be packed with fans from all over the world. The band had played this same venue a year before when Brandon made the mistake of calling Ronnie “a fine specimen of a man”. There were two major differences about this show compared to their previous show—tonight’s concert was being filmed to later be released as a concert DVD, and Brandon won’t be such a dumbass.

As bored as he was, Brandon understood why their crew was being so meticulous during their soundcheck. He was excited to share this show with his fans who couldn’t experience it firsthand, but he also felt the creeping fear that any mistake would be immortalized. If the crew felt confident that everything would run smoothly, and the band felt the same, all Brandon would have to worry about was himself (worrying about Brandon was usually Ronnie’s job).

“Alright,” the stage manager looked over some sheets on a clipboard before returning his gaze back to the band, “let’s start Human. We need to make sure the intro is tight—that’s everyone’s first impression of the show.” The band sighed to themselves before walking away from their positions onstage and returning to the wings of the stage, hidden from the audience’s view.

“If they make us run this one more time I will burn the venue down,” Dave muttered as they waited for their cue to return to the stage.

“Calm down, Davie,” Ronnie teased, “they just want it to be...” he paused before raising his hand in the air dramatically, “perfecto.”

“You can’t even hear the bass anyway, I could be napping right now. They don’t need to hear me hit the same four notes over and over to know that the bass is working,” Mark sighed as he attempted to rest his eyes while leaning against a wall.

“Gosh,” Ronnie chuckled, “you’re all such babies. Brandon, what do you think about this?”

“No soundcheck should be almost two hours long and it’s not fun if I’m not wearing my feather jacket,” the singer deadpanned.

“Wow,” Ronnie responded, “you guys realize we have the greatest job in the world, right? In a few hours this place will be filled with people who have made our lives as special and crazy as they are. Don’t you want this show to be awesome for them?”

The other three band members stood in a shamed silence before Dave spoke, “If we love and trust our fans so much then I’ll go tell them about our in-band gay romance.”

If looks could kill, Ronnie and Brandon would have had Dave six feet under.

“I’m kidding, you fucks,” Dave responded.

The echoing ticking sounds of their rather grandiose entrance were booming throughout the spacious venue. Ronnie heard his cue and hit the stage, then Mark, then Dave. Brandon, of course, walked out last. He sauntered with a swagger that he used both onstage and off.

Once all members were in their places, Ronnie gave a four count on his sticks to start the song but was interrupted by the crew, “That’s all we needed for the intro! Thanks guys, take five.”

Brandon turned around and faced the drummer with a childish pout on his face, “I wanna go,” he muttered. Ronnie simply rolled his eyes—his band could be such babies, couldn’t they?

“Alright, everyone!” Only a minute or so had passed before the crew manager got everyone’s attention once more, “Now that we have the sax mic set up properly, I think we should run Joy Ride again so we can check levels. Sound good?”

Before any of the Killers killed the man with sarcasm, Ronnie made sure to shout, “Sure thing!”

Brandon was annoyed with his boyfriend’s cheeriness at first, but as the song began he realized he could have fun, too.

The singer started off the song he usually would during soundcheck: relaxed, laid back, and limiting his voice as to not strain it before the big show that night. It wasn’t until Brandon sang “drove into the fire” that he took his mic off the stand and turned around to face Ronnie. The older man was a little too focused in his drumming to notice at first, so Brandon stepped closer. When he reached the lyric “rattlesnakes and romance”, Brandon flirtingly wiggled his hips closer to the drummer. 

Ronnie saw that. 

Brandon was only more motivated now that he saw how easy it would be to get Ronnie’s attention. The singer turned around again, taking slow but long strides back to his microphone. He knew the longer he stayed with his back to Ronnie, the more likely he’d be staring at his ass. He was wearing  _ those  _ black jeans, after all. 

The first chorus of Joy Ride ended and the second verse came in with swarms of brass and bass. This is when Brandon turned around again.

This whole verse was for Ronnie.

What none of the fans, or anyone except for the couple, don’t know is that the entire second verse of Joyride is based on the time Brandon and Ronnie roadtripped in between legs of the Sam’s Town tour and had themselves a real fun time.

“Pulled up to a motel, vacancy was buzzin’,” Brandon looked a little too smug when he sang this, and much to Ronnie’s dismay—he noticed.

The word “dirty” seemed to feel like filth falling out of Brandon’s delicate lips. Ronnie tried his best to keep his focus on the drumming, but Brandon was now strutting towards the drum platform with his bedroom eyes.

“Stumble in the twilight,” Brandon kept eye contact with Ronnie as he sang the next lyric, “and fell onto the floor.”

In a flood of memories, Ronnie suddenly remembered everything from that night so vividly. He felt himself twitch in his jeans but knew he needed to ignore it, it’s just so damn hard when Brandon is so damn pretty. 

When the singer turned around again, he ensured he walked even slower than before. Ronnie wanted to give the audience a show to remember, and Brandon was settling for a show to get his boyfriend hard with.

And it was definitely working. Ronnie noticed he had missed some hits and rolls in the past few measures—which was nearly mortifying for him. If Brandon hadn’t been galavanting around the stage looking so hot it wouldn’t have been a problem.

But there the singer was, swaying his hips and shooting Ronnie “fuck me” eyes whenever given the chance.

Ronnie now wanted the soundcheck done before anyone else in the band.

“Alright, you guys should be all set,” these were the words of freedom for the whole band, but Brandon and Ronnie were the first ones off the stage.

Once in the hallway of the venue’s guest area, Brandon grabbed Ronnie’s hand. The drummer felt a warmness in his chest, which was soon replaced by exhilaration as they raced down the hall to their dressing room.

Brandon’s hand fumbled on the door as he desperately tried to get into their shared room. Ronnie took this as an opportunity to start kissing the back of Brandon’s neck and grabbing his asscheeks. This only made it harder for the singer to open the door, but he found himself leaning into the touch like a needy whore.

The door finally pushed open, but it was closed just as faced as Ronnie pushed Brandon against it once they were inside.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Ronnie muttered before pressing his lips to Brandon’s.

“God,” Brandon pulled away and smiled wickedly, “I’ve been thinking about you all day." Before Ronnie could respond, Brandon snuck his hand down to palm the bulge in the front of Ronnie's pants. 

"I’ve been wanting you, have you been wanting me?," Brandon was against his lips again, "I bet this isn't the first time you were hard today, is it?"

“How could I not be hard when you gave me such a show out there?," Ronnie whispered playfully.

"In that case," Brandon whispered against Ronnie's mouth, which was open and breathing heavily, “I’m happy you noticed.”

Ronnie connected their lips sloppily, humming softly in the process. Brandon quickly took control again, both of his hands finding their way to Ronnie's face to hold him in place. Brandon pushed his tongue into Ronnie's mouth and the older man groaned. Ronnie's hands wrapped around Brandon's back and pulled him closer. In the process, Brandon wedged his thigh in between Ronnie's legs.   
Brandon moved one hand from Ronnie's face to his ass, where he slowly began to guide the movement of Ronnie's hips on his thigh. Small gasps and whimpers were falling out of Ronnie's mouth and into Brandon's as his bulge rocked against Brandon's thigh. Brandon deepened the kiss by grabbing Ronnie's hair, pulling it occasionally and making Ronnie whine.   
The kiss was a mess of lips, tongue, and teeth. There were moments where Brandon couldn't tell if he was moaning or if it was Ronnie. Ronnie was practically clawing at Brandon's back. Brandon didn't mind, as he was pulling at Ronnie's hair with the same amount of force.

  
Ronnie slid his hands up Brandon's shirt, marveling at how soft the skin there was. Ronnie dragged his fingers up across Brandon's ribcage and smiled against Brandon's lips. Ronnie moved his hands up to rub across Brandon's chest, making the younger man sigh and relax against his touch.

  
As Ronnie continued to ride Brandon's thigh, Brandon trailed his lips down from Ronnie's lips to his neck. Brandon felt Ronnie's nails dig into his skin slightly when he spent time licking and biting at one spot of his neck.

  
"Fuck," Ronnie panted breathlessly, "Brandon, I-I need more."

  
Brandon lifted his face from Ronnie's neck and looked him in the eye with a smirk, "More?"

  
Ronnie nodded as he struggled to catch his breath, "Please."

  
Brandon moved away from Ronnie, removing his thigh from the spot between Ronnie's legs. 

  
"Oh God," Ronnie managed to gasp out as he watched Brandon unzip his pants. Brandon was careful not to break eye contact as he did so, maintaining a devilish smirk on his face.

  
Brandon brought Ronnie's pants down to his ankles and he was left staring at Ronnie's leaking hard-on in his tight briefs. He left a teasing kiss on the outline of the tip, making Ronnie's whole body jolt forward with a whine.

  
"Wow," Brandon chuckled, "this won't take very long then, will it?" The blush on Ronnie's cheeks deepened. Brandon hooked his fingers around the waistband of Ronnie's briefs and pulled them down.   
As soon as Brandon grabbed Ronnie by the base of his cock, Ronnie jumped with a  moan. 

“No, I can’t do it,” Ronnie groaned, “bend over the fucking couch.”

“Hm?” Brandon quipped.

“You heard me,” Ronnie tugged Brandon’s head back by his air, “bend over the couch.”

Stumbling to his knees, Brandon did just so. So eager to fulfill his demand, Brandon bent over the arm of the couch without first pulling down his pants. When the drummer walked over and smacked Brandon hard on the ass, “Couldn’t even pull your pants down for me, baby? I’ll get those right off.”

In a swift motion, Ronnie yanked the singer’s tight pants and briefs down with force. The action elicited a whimper from the singer.

Ronnie leaned over Brandon’s back before grabbing Brandon by the throat and pulled his neck back so that his words were just against the crest of his ear, “I’m gonna make you scream for me, baby doll.”

* * *

“Any of you people ever loved somebody?” Brandon directed his question to the audience and smirked to himself when they cheered in response. He bet that Ronnie was smiling as well from his drum kit—or whatever that face he made when he drummed was called. “Sometimes it comes very quickly, very easily,” he paused for a moment, “as easy as a beautiful English girl's hair falls across her shoulder.”

His smile fell and he dropped his hand from the neck of his bass to it’s body, “Sometimes it disappears just as quick. You wake up one morning—the butterflies stop flutterin’...” he took a breath and wished that he could turn to meet the gaze that was burning into the back of his head. “But you want it back and you wanna fight for it—you wanna breathe that fire again!”

He hoped that he was wasn't too subtle to get the point across. Brandon wanted to breathe that fire again—he just had to find it first.

* * *

“Have you seen Brandon?” Ronnie asked Dave as the guitarist took his night’s fifth shot. Dave made a weird groaning noise before shrugging at the drummer.

He had to shout to be heard over the party, “I don't know, man!” 

“You don't know if you’ve seen him?” Ronnie shouted, equally as loud. 

“I saw him and Mark at the bar earlier but some guy came and took ‘em!” Dave yelled, bobbing his head to the music that played from the looming speakers. “What was he wearing?” 

Ronnie was starting to get a headache, “That damn ugly tiger jacket! Was the guy interviewing them?”

“Probably!” Ronnie cursed at himself. “But then, I saw Mark getting accosted by some women and Brandon wasn't with him!” That wasn't good. 

“I’m gonna go look for him!” Ronnie said. Dave nodded vigorously before returning to the closest drinks table.

They were once again at the NME awards, only this time in the U.K.. The after party room was crowded and dark, reminding Ronnie more of a club than anything else. Finding Brandon would be difficult considering both how many people were present and how Brandon was dwarfed by all the tall celebrities and women in heels. As Ronnie weaved through the crowd, he thought back on where he had last seen Brandon—the younger man had been showing off their profane looking “best international band” trophy with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth which had been curved up in a smile.

A smile that was no longer crooked. Brandon had gotten his fucked up, yet still insanely cute, smile fixed before they started touring the previous year. The drummer begged his boyfriend not to go though with it but Brandon’s mind couldn't be easily changed—he’d always hated his teeth.

Ronnie was getting sidetracked.

“Oh… my God?” A voice behind him said. It was an incredibly intoxicated woman who was being held up by a friend. “Are you the brightside boy?” It was very odd that she recognized him. 

“No, no,” Ronnie said. “But I’m looking for him.” 

The girls giggled and shared a look with each other. “Yeah,” the other one said. “He’s shorter and… cuter than you….” 

Ronnie rolled his eyes, “Have you seen him, then?” 

The first woman scoffed, offended. “Wouldn't I remember seeing his pretty face?” She had a point.

“But you're a good boy… so is he,” the other said, grinning at him. “Even if you lost him… I lose my boyfriend, too!” The first woman laughed at her friend before stumbling a bit on her heels. “Good luck!” With that, she dragged her friend away and left Ronnie alone. The drummer had no idea whether or not they were famous, but it concerned him that they thought he and Brandon were dating.

They were, though, weren't they? 

Ronnie continued to weave through the crowd in search for his boyfriend. He was desperate to get he and Brandon out of the sultry building and into the cool English air; his head pounded along with whatever song played from above. He hoped that Brandon was having an easier time. 

Suddenly, he heard a familiar laugh. 

Ronnie whipped his aching head to the left and found Brandon interacting with one of the party’s staff. The singer indulged in taking a shot from the server’s silver platter. 

Ronnie groaned and marched over to his boyfriend as the server left. 

“Ron!” Brandon shouted when he saw him. “Been lookin’ for you!” 

“Where have you been?” Ronnie asked, leaning in close so that he would be heard. Brandon’s breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

“I’ve only been havin’ champagne, Ronnie!” Brandon’s perfect smile grinned as he spoke. “It’s all okay!” Brandon went to caress Ronnie’s arm but the drummer stopped him before he could, carefully deflecting the singer’s wrist. 

“Don't lie to me, Brandon,” Ronnie said with a level voice. “We need to go now.” 

Brandon gave the drummer a dirty look, “I’m only havin’ fun, baby!” He exclaimed. 

“Don't say that,” Ronnie gritted out. “Not here. Let’s go-” 

“But I love you, baby!” Brandon said it so rarely that it hurt Ronnie to hear it in the current context. “Have fun with me, please?” Brandon leaned (fell?) forward and grabbed both of Ronnie’s shoulders. It was at this moment that Ronnie realized that their NME award was missing. The drummer really needed Brandon to stop mentioning their relationship.

“Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” Brandon giggled as he wrapped himself around the drummer. “Today’s my birthday.” 

Ronnie tried to escape from the younger man’s grasp but failed, “Today isn't your birthday, Brandon.” 

“Oh, but you know it’s someone’s!” Brandon laughed. Ronnie huffed as he struggled to remove his boyfriend’s arms from his torso. “Somewhere! That’s what you used to always say to me…” Brandon trailed off. Maybe he had realized that his statement was false—Ronnie was never the one to rave about random people’s birthdays when he was drunk. 

The drummer finally managed to free himself while Brandon was distracted. The singer protested but he was quickly shut down as Ronnie grabbed his wrist once again and began to drag him towards where he had left Dave. 

“God, what’s your problem?” Brandon slurred, obviously upset that Ronnie was forcing him to leave. “You said I could! You promised not to get mad at me! I’m not even drunk!” The drummer winced at Brandon using his own words against him. Ronnie prayed that no one was watching and continued to haul his boyfriend across the ballroom, ignoring the younger man’s tantrum. 

“You did it!” Dave shouted once he saw Ronnie. “I found Mark, too!” The tallest of their quartet rolled his eyes at Dave and clutched onto their NME award—Brandon must have given it to him.

“Y’all worked together?” Brandon protested. He continued to struggle against Ronnie’s grasp for a moment longer before giving up; he sighed and let his head drop against the drummer’s shoulder. “You’re so mean to me,” he whined. 

“We gotta go,” Ronnie announced again. Now that Brandon wasn't actively trying to get away from him, the drummer relaxed his grip and pulled Brandon forwards. The singer didn't fight the movement and instead let himself be held from behind. Ronnie massaged the boy’s shoulders as he spoke, “Are you guys leaving, too?” 

Mark confirmed with Dave before nodding, “We can call a cab if you two want to…” the bassist didn't seem to know how to describe what he meant.

Dave looked back at him with a gasp, “You want them to-” He stopped himself and surveyed his surroundings, “...Fuck?” 

Brandon, who had been zoned out until then, snapped out of his daze, “What, now?” 

“We’ll get one of those limos out back,” Ronnie ignore his drunk friends. “I’ve got enough money, I think. Do you have money, Brandon?” 

The singer tilted his head backward, “I’ve never had to pay you before!” The man clearly had no idea what was going on.

“We’ll be fine,” Ronnie said. “I’ll see you two tomorrow—get to the hotel safe.” With that, Ronnie began to escort Brandon towards the exit. The singer shuffled awkwardly as Ronnie pushed him gently from behind. 

“Oh my God,” Brandon suddenly whined. He stopped dead in his tracks, forcing Ronnie to do so as well. “I’m so fuckin’ hot!” He fought Ronnie off and began to claw at his jacket.

“Wait, wait,” Ronnie took Brandon’s hands and stopped him. “It’s cold outside-”

Brandon slapped his boyfriend’s hands away and snapped, “Get the hell off of me! Jesus, you need to chill out!” Brandon continued to struggle with his jacket, getting nowhere. 

“Here,” Ronnie started. “Let me at least help you-”

“Stop it!” Brandon truly wanted nothing to do with his boyfriend. He carried on with his act for a minute, groaning when he failed. His hands shook too much for him to be able to successfully unbutton his jacket—the sight was pitiful. Tired and frustrated, the singer let his arms drop before he cried, “Ronnie—I need your help.” 

Ronnie rolled his eyes and stepped forward to assist the younger man. Brandon’s head hung low in shame while the drummer worked. He helped Brandon take the bedazzled thing off then folded it neatly in his arms, ready to be toted to the limousine. The singer mumbled a thanks before finally (willingly) stumbling towards the exit. He was quiet for the time that they walked, forcing Ronnie into a moment of introspection. Brandon’s night had probably been ruined—this he knew—and though worse events might have transpired if Ronnie had not plucked him from the party, he still harbored some guilt.

In the middle of the parking lot, Brandon stopped dead in his tracks and Ronnie almost crashed into the singer’s back. Brandon turned and looked Ronnie square in the eye, “Do you think that the trophy could fit up my-” 

Luckily, there wasn't anyone around to witness Ronnie absoluting _ losing it  _ in the parking lot. 

“I’m serious!” Brandon slurred. “I think I could!”

Ronnie would have given anything to be able to sling an arm over his boyfriend’s shoulders in that moment—to hold him close and protect him from the frigid air—but he refrained. Just because the parking lot was empty didn't mean that no one was watching from behind security cameras. Instead, Ronnie simply stepped ahead (still chuckling) and advised Brandon to follow him to where the valet was located. He periodically glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Brandon was still there.

There was little hassle to retrieve the limousine and the only thing of note that happened while they waited was Brandon making a comment about how his feet hurt.

What they had been calling a limousine was actually a glorified SUV with two benches and one of those roll-up windows dividing the front and back, but it was late and Ronnie didn't care anymore. Once it arrived, he promptly persuaded Brandon to slide in and did the same before turning to tell their driver which hotel they were staying at. Immediately afterward, Brandon latched himself onto the drummer—Ronnie had not even had the time to back turn around before it happened. The car surged forward, causing the two men in the backseat to collide their foreheads together but Brandon didn't seem to mind it all that much seeing as it got him closer to his boyfriend. Ronnie's head began to throb worse and his patience started to run thin. 

In an annoyed tone, Ronnie asked, “Would you stop that?” Brandon, sitting on his knees on the bench, had been pulling at Ronnie's jacket quite fervently. Brandon huffed and grinned that toothy grin of his before pushing Ronnie into the door and going for his face. Under any other circumstances, the drummer would've let Brandon do whatever he wanted, but one glance through the car’s interior window proved that they were in trouble. Ronnie made brief eye-contact with their driver, who was staring at him with an inquisitive look through the rearview mirror. Their driver who, after that brief moment with Ronnie, glanced over to Brandon. 

Hypocritical Brandon who was, at that time, practicing what he had been preaching against for nearly an entire year and kissing Ronnie’s neck. 

Without thinking, Ronnie shoved the smaller man back towards the other door before switching over to the other bench and hitting the button that closed the window between them and the driver. It hurt because Brandon hadn't been eager in so long. 

It hurt because when Ronnie looked back to Brandon, the younger man was morosely staring at his own reflection in the window. His eyes shifted to Ronnie’s reflection for a second before Brandon looked at the real one. 

“You can't do shit like that,” Ronnie said before the singer could open his mouth. “You know you can't do shit like that!”

“What's wrong with me?” Brandon asked, distressed. “Don't you like me?”

“I like you, but-”

Brandon interrupted him, “Is it because you think I’m ugly? I’m not good enough?”

“No! God, no!” Ronnie reached out and put a hand on Brandon’s knee but the younger man slapped it away.

“You're such a fucking dick,” he spat. “You complain about never getting anything from me and then you tell me to fuck off when I try to be nice.” In Ronnie's mind, that was the last straw. 

"I'm a dick?” He put a hand to his chest. “You won't walk next to me on the sidewalk when there's anyone else around and then you throw yourself onto me in front of a stranger just because you're buzzed and horny! You need to make up your mind on whether or not you're ashamed to be seen with me!”

Brandon sputtered over his words due to both his anger and how much he had drank, “You fucking- you don't know how hard all this has been for me. You're not the one being hounded by the press to talk about your personal life—you're just the fucking drummer!”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Ronnie was now offended, “You couldn't play drums to save your life! What the fuck has that got to do with anything!”

Brandon huffed and shook his head, “You have no damned clue how this has been affected me-”

“You won't talk to me!” Ronnie yelled. “I try to help you but you shut me out, you don't listen to my advice, and then you have the nerve to cry over me not helping you!”

Brandon unconsciously wiped a stray tear, “I’m not- I’m not crying!”

“You are in denial,” Ronnie said matter-of-factly. “You don't want to believe that we’ve been caught and you can't decide how to feel about it but you have. To. Make. Up. Your. Mind.” He leaned in closer and took Brandon’s damp hand, “Do you want people to know, or not?” 

The singer gazed at him with glassy eyes and shook his head. “I don't know,” he cried. “I just don’t-”

There was a knock on the window; Ronnie froze. The vehicle wasn't moving. 

The drummer slid over to the bench Brandon sat at and took his hand again while whispering words of comfort. He reached over and pushed the button that rolled the divider down and in the window’s reflection he saw Brandon letting his head fall against the door with an audible thump—he cried silently.

“Twenty.” Their driver said. He was a stout man with shifting, suspicious eyes.

“How much to keep quiet?” Ronnie was already pulling out his wallet. “You will not repeat what you have heard.” He sat a few bills aside and turned to Brandon, asking him for his wallet. The man made no indication that he had heard Ronnie, so the drummer simply slipped into Brandon’s back pocket and took his wallet—he’d pay him back if he needed to. When Ronnie presented the money to their driver, the man’s eyes turned to saucers—it was as if he’d never seen that much money at once before.  

Ronnie jerked his arm back when the man went to take the cash, “Are you gonna stay quiet?”

He nodded enthusiastically and made a motion with his hand as if he were zipping his lips and throwing away the key. Satisfied, Ronnie handed the stack to him before reaching past Brandon to open his door, making the younger man jump. Brandon quickly exited and took a deep breath, wiping his face clear of any evidence that something had happened. 

Later, in their hotel room, the two men sat together instead of sleeping—neither knew what to do.

“I’m an asshole and I am sorry.” Ronnie's words sounded more awkward than forced. 

Brandon gave a little complimentary smile, “Yeah.” 

The drummer’s brows furrowed and he gave a questioning look, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Can I be the big spoon?”

“But you're so little!”

“Fuck you.”

* * *

 

**Chapter VII: _We Still Fear What We Don't Know_**

 

**** Brandon ran his slender fingers through the bush that had made its way on his face. Airplane bathrooms may have been small, but they weren't so small that they discouraged the singer from primping in the mirror for a moment. He checked his teeth for any undesirables and fixed his hair before his head promptly collided with the cabinet to his left. A ring came from the intercom above and informed him about the turbulence which he was already aware of. His eyes slid shut as he waited for the plane to still, placing his hands on either side of the small vanity as if he could steady the plane himself. Once both he and the plane had calmed down, Brandon willed himself to exit the bathroom, returning to his seat. 

“You okay?” Ronnie was looking up at Brandon from where he sat. Brandon simply shrugged as he plopped back down into his seat.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair—messing it up again. 

Ronnie leaned in, peering at a red bump on the singer’s temple; he cocked a brow at Brandon. 

“I hit my head.” 

“I see that.” Ronnie stretched, yawning, “We should be landing soon.”

“Thank the Lord,” Brandon sighed. “I miss my baby.”

“She’s probably going to need a bath, you know,” the drummer smirked, amused with himself. 

Brandon shut his eyes and leaned back, “And so she’ll stay.”

It was nearly March—one-hundred and thirty-seven shows had been played since the album had come out and they were finally done for the foreseeable future.

Everyone except for Brandon. Typical. 

While in South America and Australia, Brandon could be found musing over what Ronnie had told him while they had been camping many months earlier.

“You're going to kill yourself overworking yourself so much,” Ronnie had said. “Take a break, please?”

“I can't help it if my brain comes up with new ideas, Ron,” was the reply. 

Ronnie had not heard any of Brandon’s ideas but he did know that the younger man was planning on naming his album after a certain pink bird. Oddly enough, it reminded the drummer of a conversation that they had many years prior about the road named after the bird and Brandon’s  _ totally  _ not serious comment about how he  _ metaphorically  _ wanted soar down to it with invisible wings. Landing safely, obviously. 

“I’m working on my own time,” Brandon had told him.

* * *

“Baby girl!” Nikita was on top of Brandon before the man could even shut the front door. She was now almost as tall as Brandon when she stood on her back legs. Ronnie pretended to be jealous. 

Once they were settled in, Ronnie ordered a pizza while Brandon surfed through the channels of their TV, looking for a good and mind-numbing documentary for him to fall asleep to—preferably for ten years. Brandon was lazy, Ronnie was making up for the lack of unspoiled food in their refrigerator. 

“I wish you’d shave your beard,” Ronnie said as he sat down next to Brandon. 

“My, how the tables have turned,” Brandon grinned. “I won't do it. Not after all you put me through with yours.” 

Ronnie laughed, “You ass! Mine was better!” 

Brandon gave him a sly look, “Was it?”

“You little bitch,” Ronnie said under his breath. Brandon rolled his eyes and leaned onto his shoulder. 

“I missed this.” 

Ronnie furrowed his brows, “You being a bitch? Newsflash: that never went away.” 

“Precisely.”

…

“I swear to God if you fall asleep before our food gets here you actually will be a bitch.” Despite Brandon humming in response, Ronnie ate dinner alone that night. He didn't have the heart to wake the singer up. 

* * *

Weird things happen to your body when you’ve just flown halfway around the world in a day. Weird things like going to get groceries at two in the morning; they went to Walmart because Whole Foods wasn't open twenty-four hours. Walmart in the morning hours was like an entirely different dimension that happened to be full of goths (and maybe some people who looked like vampires—Brandon would have looked like a vampire if not for the slowly recovering sunburn on his face). They were both secretly thankful that they were up late enough to go to the store while it was nearly empty. 

Shopping for thirty minutes and goofing off for fifteen, it was nearly three o'clock by the time the men had finished what they sought out to do. They used the self-checkout because Brandon felt that it was too awkward to do otherwise. Ronnie thought it was ludicrous so he didn't help. 

The beat of the persistent beep of Brandon scanning items could have driven someone to sleep if not for when he suddenly stopped and inspected a plastic sack, not exactly opaque. 

“Ronnie,” he started. “These aren't nectarines.” The statement was almost emotionless. 

“What?” Ronnie groaned, groggy yet not tired enough not to go to Walmart at an ungodly hour. 

“Ronnie,” Brandon repeated. “These are peaches.” 

Ronnie quickly saved himself, “You like peaches, though, so it’s okay.”

“Yeah, but-” Brandon scanned the bag, “-I asked for nectarines.”

“Well, maybe we should not have split up, then.” Ronnie tapped his foot in time to the terminal beeping, “Peaches for my peach, anyhow.”

“Ron, that's cannibalism.” 

Ronnie gave a suppressed laugh, “You know I love you, right?”

Brandon, visibly blushing, turned back to look at the older man briefly before scanning another item, “Always have.”

 


End file.
